Karma on the Mississippi
by SrslyNo
Summary: A different type of story set in a different time and place. Yes, House and Wilson still meet in New Orleans, but the year is 1880. Find out how their past lives impact their future ones. Friendship. Historical AU. Warning: character death. Complete.
1. Prologue: The Visit

**Disclaimer:** Own nothing that belongs to Heel and Toe, but owe a lot to everyone else. Tried my best to research the place and period, but may have stretched a few points or went with a best guess. My apologies for any inaccuracies.

**A/N:** This is a standalone, but is the second installment in the past life series, _Redux and Reiteration._

**Beta:** The incredibly fast and ever helpful** hwshipper **who offered many valuable suggestions.

To get the story rolling, I'm posting the prologue, parts one and two, at the same time.

* * *

_**New Jersey – Current Day**_

An evening spent in blissful comfort on the recliner sofa watching porn proved to be an excellent foil for House's insomnia. He had fallen asleep and never heard Wilson's key scrape the front door lock. Slowly waking, he kept his eyes closed as he swept the back of his hand along his jaw up to his ear. Acceptance laced his disappointment when he returned his hand to his side. The wet kisses he imagined were from his porn induced dream.

He feigned sleep in the hopes of hitching a ride back to slumberland, but he heard footsteps draw nearer. His body jiggled as Wilson sank into the couch cushion with a contented sigh, snapping the footrest into place.

Except Wilson never used the footrest, and the sigh did not sound like Wilson. House cocked open an eyelid to find out why.

He pushed the chair to attention, and blinked when he spotted a dark navy suit and a captain's hat. The trim on the cap gleamed like fool's gold, and the hair shone like a silver dollar.

"What the hell, Tritter! Someone busted you to uniform after losing your case against me? You have no right or reason to be here. Your dream came true, I went to rehab, I'm drug free. Now get out of here before I report you for breaking and entering."

The light blue eyes gleamed with a warmth that House had never seen before.

"You're still the same antagonistic fool, Gr-, House." Tritter stroked his uniform, patting stray wrinkles into place. "Of course, I heard. That's why I'm here, in the capacity of a wiser and much older friend."

House pulled out his phone. "Sticking to me like glue and harassing me doesn't qualify you as a friend. You have until the count of 9-1-1 to get out of my home."

Tritter stood up and moved directly in front of him, towering like the Empire State Building. "Wilson never told you about our meeting, did he?" He rubbed his finger over his chin, but his sober expression gave away nothing. "Knowing Wilson the way I do, I should not be surprised." He appeared to talk to himself. "But I did tell him to forget. That must have suited him just fine."

He roused himself out of his private discussion and stared at House. "I'm not Tritter. Look at my clothes. Does any of it look familiar to you?"

With his hand in the air holding onto the phone, House eyed the long blue serge single-breasted jacket, matching vest, uncreased pants, tall collar with turned down dog-ear corners, thin ribbon bow tie, and a twinkling pin lodged in a lapel. He'd seen such clothes a long time ago at a riverboat museum his father once dragged him to. The historic house and grounds stuck in his mind because of the sudden nausea that overwhelmed him halfway through the tour. His father was disbelieving until House heaved on the first rosebush that came into his sight as he stumbled down the porch steps.

He staunched the rising queasiness in his stomach and answered tersely. "Nineteenth century riverboat captain."

"Close, but no cigar. Steamboat pilot. You're looking at a 'Tr-iteration,' if you will." Tritter stood ramrod straight. "I'm Tressiter, Martin Tressiter, pilot of the S.S. Andrew Jackson, at your service."

"Halloween is long gone. Your 'Trit or tracheotomy' doesn't scare me."

"It is not supposed to, House." Tressiter shook his head. "I'm here to help you understand who you are. Doesn't that interest you?"

"I have a psychiatrist to do that and an over-concerned friend."

"And how's that working for you?" Tressiter clasped his hands behind his back and walked toward the window. His voice was devoid of asperity—the model of reason. "It's not, is it? Living one day at a time sounds good, but you want to know more, don't you? Like what makes you tick? And not just you, but why Wilson is the way he is."

House was intrigued, but did not show it. "Why bring Wilson into this?"

"The two of you are a package deal." Tressiter turned away from the window, his eyes a more intense blue than House remembered—blue as the sky, engulfing him, hypnotizing him.

"And the three of us weren't always at odds, you know. One time, you might say, we traveled along the same path, floated along on the same current…


	2. An Unexpected Event

**_[H]ouse Characters in Part 1_**

_Gregory House = Gregory Vaughn_

_Amber Volakis = Alice Vaughn_

* * *

_**New Orleans – 1880**_

"Greg! Greg! Where are you, angel? Maman needs your help."

"Coming, Mom," Greg answered as he opened the door and carefully placed the tray onto his mother's dressing table without so much as a rattle from the porcelain cup or the lid from the coffeepot. He waved his hand over the beignets, and was satisfied to feel the heat pouring from them. No one dared to say his bad leg slowed him down even when climbing stairs.

He was rewarded with a broad smile as his mother gave up untangling the strings of her corset and dropped it on the bed. She danced over to the vanity table, and kissed his cheek before sitting down on the small bench. "You do take good care of me, sugar. But your maman would die a happy woman if you would stop calling me Mom or Ma. Even happier if you said my given name, Alice, in front of the paying customers."

Greg shrugged one shoulder and challenged, "How can you be happy about dying?" Snatching one of the cooling pastries, he did not expect an answer. Every morning started the same way. It was their way of saying, "hello."

He watched his mother pour the dark, steaming coffee into her cup, her fingers fidgeting as if deciding whether to drink it. Her mouth grimaced.

He felt an unbidden pang of concern. "What is it, Ma? Coffee not to your liking? I watched the cook make it. It's as murky as the bottom of the Mississippi."

"Perfect, boy, but I'm afraid the fish from last night's dinner is not sitting well." She was quiet for ten seconds, an unnaturally long period for her, before she drew a deep breath and the tense lines disappeared from her slender face. "No matter, I'd rather talk to you. What have you been learning in school?"

Greg concentrated on wiping the grains of sugar from his pants. Best for his mother not to look closely into his eyes. She could always tell when he was lying and skipping school. However, he was capable of distracting her with the half-truths. "More about The War, numbers."

His answer yielded the result he had hoped. His mother placed her hands over her ears, closed her eyes, and shook her head like a child. She looked like one too, after several long blonde tendrils fell from her perfectly coiffed hair.

"Enough! Numbers aren't my strong suit, and I'm sick and tired of hearing about The War. It's been over for fifteen years—nearly your age, but no one in New Orleans can rub three words together without mentioning it. You've been studying about it for longer than The War itself. Your head needs to be stuffed with current events, like which boat just landed in New Orleans." She clasped her hands together in delight. "How about you help me into my corset and we go find out for ourselves?"

"You honestly don't mind consorting with Yankees?" Greg asked as he stood up and followed his mother to the bed.

"Honey, men are men." She was expertly detangling the laces of her corset and slipping the undergarment over her head. "They can whimper and moan all they want, but as long as they don't talk, and I can't hear their accents, one is no better than the other."

He appreciated his mother's candor. "You're saying all men are the same?" As long as she was in a talkative mood, he wanted to find out all he could. Even though he lived in bordello, he was still a virgin.

"No, baby." She turned and stroked his cheek, her voice soft. "Not your first. That one will always be special."

Facing forward again, her back toward him, she flapped the laces, signaling him to tighten the corset, and that the birds and bees speech was over.

He began pulling.

"A little tighter, honey. The smaller the waist, the more suitors will come a-calling."

A snort almost escaped his lips at his mother's Southern belle delusions, but it was soon forgotten as his own world came crashing down around him. He gave one last tug when he heard a strange gurgle from his mother. He looked up and saw her reflection in the mirror from across the room…

… Alice Vaughn was clasping her stomach and vomit was exploding from her mouth.


	3. The Stranger

**_[H]ouse Characters in Part 2  
_**

_Gregory House = Gregory Vaughn_

_James Evan Wilson = James Earnest Wilcox_

_

* * *

  
_

By the time Greg passed through the gates of Holt Cemetery, the fog had begun to burn off. He looked down at his shoes. The dust and mud from the road had turned them from black to brown.

At least the clump of flowers clutched in his hand had benefited from the walk. He had snatched a variety of blooms from front yards along the way. As he proceeded past the rows he plucked a few choice roses other mourners had left on their loved ones' graves.

When he reached his mother's row, he turned right but immediately slowed. A man dressed in black was placing a bundle of red and white roses on her grave. As the man straightened, Greg could make out that the man was taller than most, his hair a dark bronze against his hat. He appeared caught up in grief by the manner in which he swept a handkerchief over his nose and eyes. He coughed discreetly into the white cloth then balled it up in his hand.

Down to a snail's pace, Greg hoped the stranger would go away before he would have to face him across the small patch of land, but the man stood motionless, head down, shoulders slumped, arms hung awkwardly at his side.

The man could have been mistaken for a black marble monument if he were standing in one of the better cemeteries. He did not look up when Greg reached the grave.

Irritation getting the better of him, Greg pushed the sickeningly sweet, full-blown roses away from the wooden marker, making room for his own cheap and mismatched token of remembrance.

"Who are you?" he asked bluntly. He'd never seen the man before.

The stranger started out of his reverie. The head came up while his hands dug into his coat pockets. The brown eyes scrutinized him. "You knew Alice Vaughn?"

"Not the way you and the rest of New Orleans knew her. I'm her son," Greg bit out, daring the man to probe further.

"Son? Alice had a son?" The man's face showed puzzlement, or it could have been the way one eye focused and the other strayed. "I knew—I mean I understood she… worked for a living, but never heard that she had—"

"—a bastard." Greg supplied. His mother would have risen from her grave if she could have heard him, but not a pebble rolled out of place, providing proof that the dead did not walk among the living. This man provoked him for some unknown reason. Maybe it was the hurt in his eyes and his posture, as if Alice could mean something to anyone else in New Orleans.

Greg made a fist behind his back as the man inspected him from head to toe. He did not want to be judged by his bad leg.

The stranger asked, "How old are you?"

His stomach fluttered. No one ever showed an interest in him. Greg was unsure how to answer. He deflected. "That's a personal question, sir," he drawled, imitating the fancy gentleman he heard in Madam Adelaide's parlor. "We have not been introduced."

The man dipped his head toward the grave and addressed the freshly turned soil. "The boy has your blue eyes, Alice but not your charm." Then he turned his attention back to Greg. "Surely we can skip etiquette at a time like this. Alice is most likely our only mutual acquaintance. My name is James Ernest Wilcox." He added softly, "Do you recognize the name?"

The man's demeanor was the literal image of his middle name. He stepped forward and proffered a hand, but Greg stepped away. He had come to put flowers on the grave, not make a friend.

"Never heard of Wilcox. There are the randy Wilkins' brothers from Southern Elms. You kin?"

The stranger shook his head and tilted his hat back on his head, his brow furrowed from the glare of the sun. His mouth formed the beginning of a deprecating smile. "Suppose our commonality is that we have nothing in common. I'd like to hear more about your mother. How about you tell me about her while we break bread together?"

"I didn't bring my wallet," Greg grudgingly answered.

"I didn't ask if you did. I'd be honored if you would be my guest."

"As long as you put it that way… I'd be honored to spend your money."

.

.

_TBC_

_**Next:**__ Wilcox decides what's best for Greg. Greg has other ideas._


	4. Free Lunch

For a smoother narrative, I'm posting Parts 3 and 4 at the same time.

* * *

**_[H]ouse Characters in Part 3  
_**

_Gregory House = Gregory Vaughn_

_James Wilson = James Wilcox_

_

* * *

  
_

Only the sound of crunching gravel broke the silence of the cemetery as Greg walked back to the entrance with Wilcox. He concentrated on minimizing his rolling gait, but it was a waste of time. Wilcox, his face set like a sleepwalker, matched him step for step.

Wilcox said nothing until he climbed into a shiny, black single horse-drawn buggy. Shiny and black except for the film of brown dirt that the wheels and the horse's hooves raised from the clay-packed road. Greg felt humiliation warm his cheeks as Wilcox pointed at his mismatched shoes, but the embarrassment receded into relief when he heard Wilcox's remark.

"Scrape off that mud from your shoes or you walk back to town."

Wilcox was oblivious. Greg rubbed the soles and side of his shoes along a loose brick from the wall.

A mischievous urge struck him as he hoisted himself into the carriage. "The only people I know who ride to cemeteries are the dead and little old women."

Wilcox's cheeks flamed red. "Unlike you, I care for my shoes and clothes. Are you sure you're Alice's boy?"

"Pay for my lunch, and you'll find out."

* * *

As he forked another hunk of meat, Greg was aware of the brown eyes staring at him.

"You certainly don't eat like Alice."

He ignored the chide in favor of another spoonful of broth. Wilcox's taste in food was as good as his clothes. He chose a restaurant in the French quarter, Thierry's, a red brick building with black shutters and matching scroll ironwork. Greg never had the opportunity or money to eat here before, but had sauntered by and gawked through the windows, sniffing the aromas that poured from the kitchen.

"I'm still growing. I'm nearly as tall as you." He finished the sentence on a burp.

"Please don't do that." Wilcox begged, but without sincerity. "I don't want to get arrested for killi— how old are you?"

"Fifteen, almost sixteen." Greg didn't mean to let any information slip, but the food was distracting him and making him groggy. He forced another burp to save face.

"—killing a _boy_ by means of gluttony."

"I won't press charges." He managed to say the words around a mouthful of potato.

"That's kind of you, since you'd already be dead." Wilcox's hissed reply ended on a sputtered cough. He waved to a passing waiter and mimed lifting a glass to his lips. The waiter nodded back, and returned with a fresh shot glass filled to the brim with amber liquid.

Not that he cared about his benefactor, but he was curious. Wilcox had explained the first drink as a need to wash down the kicked up dust on the journey back from the cemetery—a short three-mile ride. He could not help noticing that Wilcox had barely pecked at the shrimp on his plate. He did better with the sauce, breaking off two pieces of bread, and sopping up the creamy sauce, but then lost interest in that too.

As for himself, he could barely stuff another bite into his mouth, but he wanted to tarry and learn more about Wilcox. He shoved his empty plate away and reached across the table, nipping the rim of the dish with his fingers. "If you're not gonna eat that, I will."

A sharp slap stung the back of his hand.

"Ask first, and say please."

"May I finish your shrimp, please?" He took the offered plate but the smug grin on the man across from him rankled. When the food was in his possession, he added, "Mother."

A white napkin snapped against the table and dropped like a dead dove. "I've had enough of your insolence, young man. You ate a day's worth of wages and said nary a word about Alice. I don't even know your first name. Do you know her, or did you take me for some poor bereaving idiot?"

Here was the perfect opportunity to get away from Wilcox. He opened his mouth to lie, but the brown eyes stopped him. They were brimming with tears.

The eyes struck a similar chord within him. "My name is Greg. Don't I look like her?" He mumbled and bowed his head.

"Look at me," Wilcox asked. No trace of anger lingered in his voice.

Greg raised his head.

Wilcox nodded. "What I said earlier about your eyes… the shape of your face, nose, mou—" He cleared his throat. "I'd never doubt you were her son if I attended the funeral, but I was out of town, and just heard about her death a week ago. I'm sorry. You must be in shock and hurting."

Of course he was hurting. His mother died two weeks ago, and the pain grew worse as the reality sunk in. The chip on his shoulder was as large as the hole in his heart. Better to deflect from the gaping wound by displaying tempered steel. "There was nothing that could be done." Greg shrugged.

"The best food in all the South, and Ali—your mom died of food poisoning. It's tragic."

"No."

"How is your mother's death not a tragedy?"

Greg lifted his fork, speared a pink shrimp and swirled a pattern through the sauce. "She didn't die from food poisoning." He looked around the high-ceilinged, whitewashed room to see if anyone was within earshot. "She died of yellow fever," he explained in a confidential tone.

"Yell— "

A ringing clank against the plate of seafood, and Wilcox got the hint and immediately lowered his voice. "Yellow fever? Have there been any other outbreaks? Alice lived at Madam Adelaide's, right? Why isn't the place shut down for inspections?"

"There was one other case, a sailor off a ship, about a month before. He was found dead a street away. Madam knew Mom didn't have food poisoning, but it's easier to fire the chef and change butchers than announce one of her 'ladies' died of the saffron scourge."

"My god, how can the woman be so cold-hearted?" Wilcox stroked the back of his neck.

"At least she bought Mom a plot in the new city cemetery and paid for a decent funeral instead of a giving her a hasty burial in a potter's field."

Wilcox pointed a finger at him. "No Madam ever spent a penny more than she had to. You blackmailed Adelaide."

Greg eased into a smile.

Wilcox bobbed his head in curt acknowledgment, then pulled out his pocket watch and flipped open the cover to check the time. "I'm late for another appointment. I'll go pay the bill unless you want to…?"

A blank stare seemed the appropriate response. Greg figured he pulled it off when Wilcox let out a sigh, got up, and walked toward the bar.

Alone at the table, he halfheartedly sponged up sauce with a roll, but the bread had the heft of a cannonball. He dumped it back onto the plate.

Melancholy deadened the sound of returning footsteps and the scrape of a chair.

Wilcox was back, chewing on a toothpick. He tossed a white card onto the table.

The name of the finest hotel in the French quarter was printed upon it. He inspected the front and flipped it over. A name, Jacques, was written with excessive curls across the back.

The lunch crowd and noise level were growing. Wilcox raised his voice to be heard. "We're not done, Greg. Meet me back here tomorrow where we can talk some more. If you need me before then, go to the St. Charles, ask for Jacques."

"I still won't know where I misplaced my wallet."

"Why am I not surprised?" Wilcox dismissed the subject. "Lunch? Here? Noon?"

The bread looked suddenly appealing. Greg stuffed it into his mouth and nodded his head in agreement.

"You're not a bad looking kid when you eat with your mouth closed. By the way, about Madam Adelaide? You were right to put the squeeze on her."

Before Greg could swallow, Wilcox had left.

He attacked his food with new gusto. For the first time in two weeks his chest stopped aching when he breathed.

With renewed optimism he decided that tomorrow he would swipe any food on Wilcox's plate that he wanted. To hell with "please" and "thank you."


	5. Another Free Lunch

**_[H]ouse Characters in Part 4  
_**

_Gregory House = Gregory Vaughn_

_James Wilson = James Wilcox_

_

* * *

  
_

The din from Thierry's could be heard before Greg saw the restaurant. He could also hear his stomach. He'd skipped breakfast and finished his morning and most of his afternoon chores in anticipation of poaching on Wilcox's generosity.

When he reached the entrance, he realized his decision to arrive on Creole time—ten minutes late, had worked to his disadvantage. All the tables in the dining room were full and the barroom jam-packed with men jostling one another for sandwiches that were offered free if they paid for their drinks. Wilcox was in neither area.

The only place to sit was a stool at the upright piano on the opposite side of the bar. He slid onto the chair and ran a finger over the responsive ivories. The instrument promised a rich chesty sound from the chord he played. The high beamed ceiling and brick walls guaranteed better acoustics than Madam Adelaide's parlor. He picked out a tune, one eye on the keys, the other on the door.

A man at the nearest table nudged the back of his shoulder. "Hey boy, do you know Sweet Evelina?"

Without acknowledging the question, he began the melody. A nickel appeared on the edge of the piano. He continued, sliding from one song into the next until he forgot his hunger or why he was there. A cough and a man backlit by the open door pulled him back to the present. He mentally shrugged off the image when the figure drifted into the dining room, but soon after, a waiter squeezed past tables and told him a man was waiting to dine with him. Before getting up, he reached for the coin. The original had spawned twins. He swept the change into his pocket and followed the aproned man into the room.

As he wound his way through the throng, he saw Wilcox wipe his flushed face with a handkerchief before flicking a shot of whiskey into a coffee cup. With one smooth move, he dropped the empty glass onto a tray of a passing busboy. The day was heating up, but not enough to cause skin to blush like a rouged hussy. Greg compartmentalized the information and slammed a door on it. Wilcox was a free lunch, nothing more.

"You're late." Greg stated.

"But now I'm here." Despite the feverish face, Wilcox responded coolly and sipped from his coffee cup. He made no apology or gave any explanation.

Before the silence between them became awkward, the waiter arrived and asked what they wanted. Wilcox passed on the Creole and Cajun specialties and ordered a ham sandwich. Greg chose the jambalaya. He spied people eating it yesterday, and it looked good. He pointed to Wilcox's cup. "I'll have what he's drinking."

Wilcox quickly amended the order, "Make that sarsaparilla."

"I don't drink that kid stuff."

"In front of me, you do, unless you'd rather drink water or milk?"

Greg slumped into his chair in defeat. "Sarsaparilla."

The waiter shook his head and attempted to console the person paying the bill. "Young'uns. They test us parents at every turn."

Wilcox's eyebrows angled toward his hairline and a hand waved in protest. "What, me? He's not mine. He's my friend's son. My friend's _mouthy_ son."

Tempted to show how mouthy he could be, Greg opened his mouth but shut it quickly as Wilcox pointed to him and told the server, "Make that a double order of jambalaya. He'll have the first finished before the plate hits the table."

When the waiter was out of earshot, Greg took aim at Wilcox's vanity. Today he was wearing another black suit, cut differently with a shinier finish. Anyone one who owned two black suits and slicked his hair with scented Macassar oil had to be preening peacock. Unless he was an undertaker.

"How could the waiter mistake me for your son? You're old enough to be my grandfather."

Apparently, the black suit made Wilcox impervious to insults and enabled him to wound in a similar fashion. "Grandfather? I'm thirty-seven. I took you for a smart kid."

Not smart, that stung. Greg blurted, "Stupid doesn't get relatives buried for free."

"Depends if the person guessed or had knowledge about the disease. Did you see the sailor?"

"No, but I remember the epidemic of '73."

Wilcox narrowed his eyes, skeptical. "You'd be, what? Eight?"

"Doesn't matter how old or young, you don't forget something like that." The panic and fear, the stench, his feeling of helplessness to do anything—he wished he could forget. "Food poisoning doesn't cause bloody noses, yellow fever does."

The food arrived just in time to divert his attention. Greg attacked his mountain of jambalaya.

Across the table the sandwich never left the plate. Greg eyed it like a cat watching a mouse.

"You have a memory like an elephant, and you crank out tunes on a piano. Maybe you're not stupid. Who taught you how to play?"

"Nobody. I watched the piano player at Adelaide's." Greg thought that would impress Wilcox, but the man looked disappointed.

"No classical training. You do go to school?"

"Sure." A sore point, but Greg shirked off the guilt. He wasn't answering to his mother. "When I feel like it."

Wilcox finally bit into his sandwich and chewed slowly. Greg thought he was home free, until the man swallowed.

"Don't you have any dreams or aspirations? Make more of yourself?"

"Playing a piano isn't good enough for a bastard raised in a brothel? Besides, school is boring. I read every book in the library when I was detained after school."

A half-smile wrenched at Wilcox's mouth. I can't imagine why the teachers thought you misbehaved in class. You read emeverything?/em That's a lot of discipline."

"Or not a lot of books." Greg answered with contempt. "Have you seen the school's library?"

"Did you learn anything from any of them?"

With no additonal prompting, he rattled off, "'Pax vobiscum will answer all queries. If you go or come, eat or drink, bless or ban, Pax vobiscum carries you through it all. It is as useful to a friar as a broom-stick to a witch, or a wand to a conjuror.'"

A full smile spread over Wilcox's face. "'Ivanhoe.' Pax vobiscum means, 'Peace be with you.' Why did you memorize that passage? Are you deeply religious, or do you believe that words are more powerful than objects?"

"Neither. I believe people will lie to get what they want or need. Wamba was explaining how to impersonate a priest."

Maybe that would shut Wilcox up.

The smile disintegrated into a soft exclamation of, "Oh."

The lunch was turning out not to be free after all. Every time, he raised a forkful of food to his lips, a question hitched a ride on it. He peered at Wilcox and down at his plate. He ran his tongue over his lips. There were still three shrimp. He wondered if he should risk eating them or make a run for the door. He decided on a flanking maneuver, and wiped up the sauce with a piece of brea—

"What about numbers?"

He dropped the bread dropped onto the edge of the plate. "What about them?"

"Add 1066, 1456, and 1815 together. What do you get?"

He was irritated. He crammed more food in his mouth before answering. "You get 4337, and the dates William the Conqueror was crowned the King of England, and Gutenberg printed his bible. For 1815, you can choose either the British defeating Napoleon at Waterloo, or Andrew Jackson beating the British at the Battle of New Orleans, take your pick. For good measure do you want me to subtract the year Alexander the Great died? That would be 323 BC. The total comes to 4014."

He gobbled up the rest of his food as Wilcox found an envelope and a pencil stub in his inside breast pocket of his jacket and scribbled down the numbers.

He felt a surge of pride when he heard Wilcox exclaim, "Well, I'll be damned."

The dazed expression faded into self-righteousness. "It's criminal to hang around a bordello when you have a mind like yours."

Frustration at his situation yanked the words out of his mouth. "Are you thick in the head? Don't you know how a bordello works? I don't have a choice. Sure, the burial was free, but I'm working off my mother's years of debt." He could feel his face redden. This was personal information he had never planned to share with anyone.

Wilcox raised his hands placatingly. "Sorry, I meant no harm." He nervously checked the time of his watch and spoke like a man who couldn't get away fast enough. "I'll pay the bill on my way out. I'm sure we will meet again."

For the second time in two days, Wilcox offered to shake his hand, and for the second time, Greg refused. He crossed his arms, and stared right through him as if he were a sheet of glass. He did not so much as twitch until Wilcox was gone.

When all was clear, he grabbed the untouched half sandwich and left the restaurant.

* * *

The sandwich was reduced to a smudge of oil on his thumb before he reached the end of the block. He turned toward the market area. The pungent odor of warm vegetables and the sound of clucking chickens assailed his nose and ears. After all the food he ate, this was the last place he wanted to be, but the cook had given him a list of groceries. As he picked through the stalls, his mind returned to the earlier interrogation. He felt he had been played, used—bought for the price of a meal. All he knew about Wilcox was the man had a taste for expensive clothes and an interest in history. By the time he charged two sacks of food to Madam Adelaide's account and hauled everything back to the kitchen, he decided he was entitled to quid pro quo.

He hurried to the St. Charles. A few people looked at him as he passed them on the planked sidewalk. His rhythmic bob drew attention, but he was used to it and hardly noticed. He focused on getting answers, and was curious to see the inside of the fanciest hotel on the Southern coast. The grand establishment claimed to serve ice in their drinks.

The inside did not disappoint him. Marble columns stretched two stories high. Elaborate carving adorned furniture and walls. The thickness of the lush, patterned carpet reminded him of quicksand. He approached the clerk behind a marble-topped paneled desk.

A pudgy boy, not much older than he, sorted mail into cubbyholes. He never looked up, even when Greg cleared his throat.

"A little service, here?"

The mail sorter stopped his task, and adjusted his spectacles. His face was round and white like the moon, and just as cold.

"Yes?" Moon Face warbled.

"I'm here to see James Wilcox. Which room is he in?"

"James Wilcox? When did he check in?"

"Yesterday or two days ago." Greg tried reading the guest book as the clerk ran his finger down the page, but one arm covered the names protectively.

"No, nobody by that name."

He felt a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach. "Could be a week ago."

The finger stroked several pages. "No. You must have the wrong hotel."

Greg caught the superior and dismissive tone, but controlled his temper. "What about Jacques? Where is he?"

"Jack Wilcox?"

"No." _You moonfaced idiot._ "Jacques. He works here." He ground out through his teeth.

The eyes behind the spectacles widened, and the clerk bumped into the wall behind him. "There's no Jacques working here."

Greg pulled the card from his pocket and checked. St. Charles on one side, Jacques on the other. He showed it to the clerk. "Are you sure?"

The clerk's chest ballooned with indignation as his hands tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat. He squawked, "I know my job. Of course, I'm sure."

With head held high, Greg left the hotel and headed back to the safety of the bordello. He rubbed his stomach. The lunch had turned to acid.

No Jacques, no Wilcox, if that was ever his real name. The man in black had lied.

.

.

_TBC_

_Next: Has Greg really seen the last of Wilcox? An unforeseen event makes him wish he never met him.  
_

_All comments welcome!_


	6. Small Confessions

_**A/N:** If you are still reading then you must like AU and slow moving narratives! Thank you for sticking with it! I estimated Karma to be a 10,000 word fic, it's but it's that long now and I haven't reached the good stuff yet. Guess working with a setting that's not in Houseland slowed the plot--hope you are enjoying the time period. _

_In the summary I mentioned that Karma is a prequel character study, but that doesn't mean there won't be action. There will be, I promise. This story is quite different than my usual, so I look forward to your comments._

**[H]ouse Characters in Part 5**

Gregory House = Gregory Vaughn

James Wilson = James Wilcox

Stacy Warner = Madame Adelaide = Sarah Wetzel

* * *

_Whomp_

_Whomp_

_Whomp_

Greg slammed the rug beater into the carpet with enough force for the dense pile to shiver, but not swoon in fear. His mind was elsewhere, woolgathering his mother would teasingly have said. Four days had passed and not a word from Wilcox. Why had the man befriended him, pried into his life, then suddenly fled?

Irritated over his obsessing about a chance meeting with a stranger, he tightened his grip on the handle, inhaled, and put all his weight into his swing. _WILCOX!_ The carpet danced a jig on the clothesline and a cloud of dust exploded into the air. Slapping the grime off his hands, he pulled the rug off the line and lumbered into the house just as the grandfather clock on the upper landing tolled four o'clock. As far as he was concerned his day chores were done. He ducked out the door before anyone demanded wood chopped or potatoes peeled.

He headed toward the riverboat landing to see the recent arrivals and departures, and hear the latest gossip. The sights and sounds of monster-sized steamboats thrashing the water with their giant paddlewheels guaranteed to drive any thoughts of Wilcox out of his head.

The noisy crowd at the river's edge pointed and waved to the departing passengers. Giddy with excitement, strangers waved at strangers. As entertaining as this ludicrous behavior was, he focused on the transportation—the triple-tiered steamboats.

He leaned on the wooden rail and watched as two huge vessels sailed upriver until they were mere specks dragging foamy wedding veils of water behind them. He turned his attention to three other behemoths, ropes untied from the dock, plumes of smoke billowing from their stacks. Judging by the visitors leaving the decks and returning to land, their departures were imminent.

His heart sped up and his breath caught in his throat as horns blasted insults and angry taunts at each other. The arrogance and bravado stirred him to his core. Paddlewheels churned water to froth, maneuvering away from the landing. As they eased from the shore, the steamboats jockeyed for position, scraping against each another. Wooden boards squealed and creaked, threatening to splinter apart and sink the boats fifty yards from the pier. The crowd gasped. Greg smiled. The pilots were experts and showing off for the crowd. Only layers of paint would fall victim to their high jinks.

He lingered until clouds of white steam and black smoke hung over the horizon. Not ready to leave, he meandered through the thinning flocks of people and listened to snatches of conversation. The latest news on everyone's lips was the riverboat race between the Andrew Jackson and the Belle of Natchez. The captains had agreed upon a date three weeks from today to race their boats from Memphis to St. Louis. What he wouldn't give to travel to Memphis and watch the start of the race. Or better yet, book passage and witness the duel first-hand. But the money from Theirry's was far from enough, and Adelaide would never permit him to go.

As he returned to the house, he weighed the pluses and minuses of the two ships, forgetting entirely about Wilcox. The man slipped to the bottom rung of his priorities as he schemed about getting away from the house tomorrow and placing a bet on the Andy Jackson.

**

* * *

**

Pencil poised on a sheet of paper, Greg leaned against the cool wall of the pantry, occasionally jotting down an item for restocking. He was in no hurry. The cook was at the market meeting friends, trading recipes and gossip. By the time he returned, he would be busy with lunch preparation. Because of the unique combination of high plastered walls and angles that relayed sound, Greg never worried about getting caught slacking off on inventory. With any luck, he could stretch the task into the afternoon when everyone became groggy from the heat and food, and he could slip away to the docks.

When his list looked long enough, he decided to take a break and sample a jar of peaches that looked "off." He stretched out on the floor, twisted off the lid, and stabbed the fruit with his pocketknife. He shrugged. The sliver was firm, the flavor fruity and not too sweet. He tasted another slice to see if the first was a fluke. Willing to sacrifice himself for the health of the brothel's residents, he continued sampling the container's contents.

When he was down a third of the way, he lifted the jar to his lips and drank the juice. He halted at the sound of a voice—Madam Adelaide. He could not make out what she said, but he felt relieved. Her voice was crisp and even—her business voice when she negotiated prices for goods or services, not the melodic honey she spoke in the presence of paying customers. She could suck the profit out of a merchant or handyman's price in under a minute. Within two, they were either making good on their promises or gone.

He swirled the juice around the glass container and drank. And then he heard the _cough_—the rattling burst from a Gatling gun. Hastily screwing back the lid, he placed the peaches behind the canned tomatoes stored on the brick floor and crept out of the kitchen. Sliding his back against the wall to avoid the sagging, squeaky floorboards, he stole into the dining room. The parlor was on the opposite side of the entry hall. He could hear everything, and there was no mistaking the speaker.

"You agree? We have a deal?" Wilcox asked.

"Sure, darlin. If that's what you want, how can I say no?" Madam Adelaide answered, her voice sweeter than fresh sugarcane. Whatever Wilcox and Adelaide had agreed upon, he definitely got the worst in the deal.

Greg left the protection of the dining room. "What deal? Does this have anything to do with me? I don't want any part of it or him."

Wilcox stood next to the fireplace, his elbow resting on the mantle. His face was paler than Greg remembered.

Adelaide sat in her favorite corner chair—a queen upon her throne. Chestnut tresses piled high on her head, not one hair out of place. Her slanted golden brown eyes set above high cheekbones reminded Greg of a cat—a satisfied one who swallowed the bird and birdcage.

"Greg, this dear man knew your mother and is concerned about your well-bein—"

A cough, an artificial one, broke from Wilcox's lips. "Unexpected business prevented me from coming sooner… I wanted to check how you're doing."

"Why are you concerned?" Greg tamped down his anger, but his self-control leaked like water from a broken levee. "Or is your concern another lie?"

"Lie?" Wilcox jerked back as if slapped in the face. "You think I'm lying? About what?"

"The St. Charles and Jacques. I went there. The clerk never heard of you or your friend."

Wilcox looked genuinely upset.

Madam Adelaide leaned forward in her chair, her amber eyes glittering, greedy for more information. Greg was furious with Wilcox, but what went on between them was personal, not for Adelaide's amusement. Without turning his head from Wilcox, he telegraphed with a flicker of his eyelid that she was observing them. The briefest blink from Wilcox affirmed that he understood.

With little conviction in his voice, Wilcox dismissed the subject. "Did I say Jacques? I meant Giles."

Greg almost choked on the unconvincing lie. There was no way Madam Adelaide was going to believe that, but Wilcox donned a sheepish grin and focused his attention on her.

"Jacques, Giles, je suis all sounds the same to me. I'm just a good ole' country boy, Ma'am," Wilcox said with a syrupy drawl.

In order not to heave, Greg thought about how many rugs needed beating.

When Adelaide tipped her head in understanding. Wilcox immediately swung back to Greg.

"You know, I think you grew a half-inch since last I saw you. Your wrists and ankles stick out from your duds. How about I buy you new clothes, and I'll introduce you to Giles while we're out. What do you say?"

Greg shrugged his unenthusiastic assent. He abhorred new clothes. They were stiff and scratchy, but he was curious about the shell game Wilcox was playing.

Madam Adelaide rose from her chair, the corners of her mouth turned down, apparently disappointed that they cut short their squabble. She escorted them to the door and said cryptically, "I'm holding you to your word, Mr. Wilcox."

"As am I holding you to yours, Miss Adelaide." Wilcox bowed, and swung the door open, but stopped midway when he spied a book on the coat stand and pointed. "Is that a Bible?"

"Why, yes." She laughed. "One of my customers left it here two weeks ago and never returned for it. I'm hoping someone will steal it."

Wilcox picked the bible up and flipped through the pages. "It's old, but in good condition. May I do the honor of removing this reading material from your premises?"

"You would be doing me a great favor."

Greg said nothing but rolled his eyes as the whore and liar outdid each other with their courtly behavior. He realized too late that Wilcox was staring at him as if reading his mind.

Wilcox gripped the book and hefted it. "I reckon this may come in handy."

**

* * *

**

The horse flicked his head and nickered as Greg climbed into the carriage, only half-listening to Wilcox's weary invitation to get in.

Greg kept quiet and studiously observed the houses and storefronts they passed.

Wilcox contributed two words when his carriage halted in front of a general store. "Wait here," he growled and went inside.

Greg counted to three and hopped down from the box. The tiny but noisy bell over the door announced his presence. He was in time to see Wilcox hand a letter to a clerk and buy a newspaper. Wilcox glanced at him and heaved a sigh as he tucked the paper under his arm, then he walked right past Greg and out the door. Greg followed close behind.

Seated again in the carriage, Wilcox jiggled the reins and urged the horse forward. "Didn't I say wait? Do you ever listen?"

"I listen, but I do what I want."

"Thanks for enlightening me." Wilcox answered dryly. The conversation shriveled into hoof beats until Wilcox reached the tailor shop. "Are you going to tell me what happened with Jacques?"

"I told you. He wasn't there. The desk clerk never heard of him or you."

The thick eyebrows knitted together. "I never said I was staying there, only that you can get hold of me through Jacques. What did you want to talk to me about?"

Greg was intrigued and irritated by Wilcox's secretive behavior. "I didn't say I needed to talk. I was checking up on you after you left in a hurry. And why the cloak-and-dagger, or do you sleep in a belfry at night?"

"I value my privacy," Wilcox hissed then sputtered as he whipped out his handkerchief and coughed into it. When he stopped hacking, he opened his mouth, but Greg spoke for him.

"Save your breath. I know, the dust."

Wilcox blotted his watering eyes and cleared his throat. "What did the desk clerk look like?"

"Little older than me with a round flat face like a sunflower." He paused. "But not as yellow."

"Don't know him, must be new. Jacques is the hotel's maître d for the dining room's supper crowd. They probably never met. I should have given you—"

A man walked out of the shop with a rag, inspecting the windows and removing flecks of imaginary dust.

Greg smiled. "You came to the wrong city if you wanted privacy, Wilcox."

Wilcox rubbed the back of his neck, but returned a tight-lipped smile then gently shoved Greg out of the carriage.

**

* * *

**

"Satan invented shirt collars." Greg grumbled as he rolled his head in a circle in the hopes of stretching the linen noose around his neck. He dared not move any other parts of his body for fear of getting pricked with dozens of pins.

"A minute ago you accused Mr. Abney of using you as a voodoo doll." Wilcox replied in a bored tone from behind the newspaper.

"He is. I'm dying a slow death here."

"Kindly kill the lad quickly, Abney."

The tailor grunted his assent, his mouth filled with the tiny weapons, but his eyes twinkled at the jest. He was a patient and easy-going man.

Greg stood stock-still in front of the triple mirror that infinitely multiplied his image. The forms of tailor shop torture were endless as well. He expected to buy clothes, not endure pain and strangulation. There was the added indignity of the tailor's searching fingers pinching and smoothing fabric located extremely close to his genitals. He could not wait to peel off the garments.

When they walked into the shop, a blue and black checked suit caught his eye, but Wilcox lectured. "A gentleman does not wear anything that attracts attention."

With a fervent desire to spend as little time as possible in the shop, he agreed to Wilcox's choice—a somber black suit. The clothes looked fine to him, except for the unfinished sleeve and pant's hems that spilled over his hands and shoes. He thought, a fold and a stitch, and they'd be done and on their way. He was wrong.

Before the tailor whipped out his sliver of chalk, Wilcox had something to say about length, creases, and breaks. Greg never saw Wilcox show such an avid interest in anything like he did with wool. When the stripes of chalk turned the suit into something only a zebra would love, Wilcox nodded his approval and abandoned him on the pedestal. He roamed around the shop, inspecting shelves and bins. He circled racks of suits like a shark seeking a fresh seafood dinner. He chose another suit, more pants, shirts, and discreetly asked the tailor to add cotton drawers to the order. He did not stop until a mound of shirts, collars, cuffs, suspenders and neckware overflowed the top of a glass counter. Finally he took refuge in a chair and hid behind his newspaper, no longer interested in the proceedings.

As Greg slowly pivoted upon the platform, he spotted an announcement about the upcoming steamboat race in Wilcox's paper. "What's the article say about the Jackson-Belle race?"

Wilcox stayed behind the paper, silent and unmoving.

"Hey, you overdose on cotton and wool, Wilcox? What about the race?"

Wilcox turned a page and shook the kinks out of the paper.

The tailor spat the pins out of his mouth. "It's gonna be the race of the decade. Everyone's placing bets."

Greg patted his pockets, forgetting his money and pants were in the dressing room. "The Andy will win," he confidently answered. "The boat is newer and the captain and pilot are top-notch." He couldn't hide his excitement.

The tailor's knees popped as he stood up and smoothed the wrinkles on the sleeves to check if the lengths were even. The pitch of his voice rose a half-octave. "Have you seen the Belle? She's a beauty, slender, and trim, easy to maneuver. She cuts through water without so much as a wake."

Abney proved to be knowledgeable, almost convincing Greg to change his mind and bet on the Belle of Natchez. The time sped quickly with talk about the race. Greg was more eager than ever to get away from Wilcox and venture a bet.

Wilcox did not rouse himself from his chair until the alterations were complete, the clothes promised in four days time, and a steep deposit paid. When they were finished, Greg hitched his way to the front of the shop and exited in record time. His good foot on the carriage step, he was about to hoist himself up when he heard Wilcox behind him.

"Whoa! I didn't say we were finished. Come with me." and headed inside the neighboring barbershop.

Scratchy clothes were bad enough, but a haircut? Greg folded his arms over his chest and sat on the toasty leather. As the afternoon heat intensified, sweat rolled down his scalp and his hair clung to his neck. His mother always trimmed his hair. He'd never been inside a barbershop. Reasoning that a cool leather chair was better than a hot bench. He eased off the carriage and went in.

A fresh soapy scent greeted him. Three nickel plated chairs covered in red leather stood in a row like British officers in full dress. Each one aligned with a mirror and shelf that contained a bowl, a shaving mug with brush, and a line of bottles. Wilcox was in the last, a snowy towel tucked under his chin, eyes closed, his face in repose without a care in the world.

His brown hair was freshly trimmed, and the barber must have finished shaving him seconds before Greg walked in, because he was sprinkling a fragrant liquid into his hands and applying the lotion to Wilcox's cheeks with rhythmic slaps. Wilcox did not open his eyes until the barber dusted his neck with a brush and removed the cloth. When Wilcox stood up, he pointed to Greg. "Take care of my friend, Willis. He's in desperate need of a professional haircut."

Greg bristled at the remark. "Why do I need one?"

Wilcox planted his hands on his hips. "To not offend your new clothes with that swamp of hair on your head. Look at yourself."

He had tried to avoid his reflection, but one glance told him Wilcox was right.

Willis motioned to the middle chair, and he surrendered himself to the cushioned calfskin. A fresh towel was unfurled and placed over his chest. Gentle hands guided his neck backwards to rest upon a thick porcelain bowl filled with warm water. His scalp tingled as fingers worked up a soapy lather. He was about to fall asleep, when Willis mumbled an explanation that he needed to fetch a fresh bowl of water from the back. So far, the shampoo was the best part of his day, which reminded Greg, "I didn't need all those clothes, you know."

"Actually, you did. I can't be made out to be a liar in front of Miss Adelaide."

"Why not?" Greg noted Wilcox did not use the title, Madam, as if anybody would think they were talking about an old maid teacher. "You don't think she's a liar? Adelaide isn't even her real name. It's Sarah Wetzel."

"Sarah…Wetzel? You're… serious?"

Greg answered quietly. "Serious. No one wants to go to a brothel run by someone called Sarah. Sounds too biblical. And Wetzel is far from titillating."

With the return of Willis, they ended their conversation. Wilcox drifted over to a chair on the back wall. For the next ten minutes the snick of scissors filled the shop. Not one to fuss in front of a mirror like the women in the brothel, Greg hardly recognized his face when the barber finished. The reflection was that of a man. Not only the hair, but his cheeks were leaner and had gained hollows since the last time he looked. Willis was about to yank the towel away when Greg demanded, "What about my shave?"

The barber swung his head over to the wall where Wilcox sat. "Mister Wilcox, this young man wants a shave."

Wilcox ambled over and examined Greg's face. "A Georgia peach has more hair than you."

"What's this?!" Greg challenged, and pointed to a hair north of his chin and west of his ear.

Wilcox's finger tickled his cheek. "That's your sideburn, kid. You'll want to keep that."

"No, it's not! It's a whis—ouch!"

Wilcox stood with the hair trapped between his thumb and index finger. He rubbed the digits together and the hair joined the others on the floor. "There. You're shaved. Let's go."

**

* * *

**

"No!"

"Why not?"

"Because, I won't. I'm not going in." Greg refused to leave the carriage when he saw the sign over the shop, a shoemaker. He cringed at the thought of someone seeing his misshapen foot. He had always made do with castoff shoes he scrounged around the city. Easy enough to find when two different sizes were necessary.

Wilcox stood on the sidewalk and tilted his hat toward the back of his head. His guarded expression betrayed nothing, but his voice was soft and understanding. "You have a clubfoot. I understand. A lot of people are born—"

"—crippled?"

"With the same condition. Sir Walter Scott had a clubfoot. There's nothing to be ashamed of. You're not in pain, are you… Greg?"

Everything about Wilcox showed concern. He would have made a better preacher or doctor than any of the ones who visited the brothel.

"No."

"This is the best shoemaker in New Orleans. His name is Schumacher and comes from a long line of German shoemakers. I guarantee there's nothing he hasn't seen."

Greg squared his shoulders. "Which means you checked out the shoemaker before you came to see me. What about the clothes, and the barber? Did you plan the whole day before you spoke to Adelaide?"

Wilcox stepped away from the buggy and walked in a small circle while rubbing his neck. "What if I did? I noticed how you were growing out of your clothes and wanted to do something nice for an orphaned kid. Is that a crime?"

"Reckon not." Greg mumbled. Wilcox sure had a way with words—making him feel guilty when clearly Wilcox was the one doing the lying.

"How about I go in there." Wilcox pointed to the shop with both hands. "Speak to the proprietor. Ask him how much three pairs of shoes will cost. I'll give you the money, and you go in by yourself. Just you and the shoemaker. Is that all right with you?"

Greg considered the offer. Whatever the cobbler quoted, he could easily pad a dollar or two onto the amount and use the money to make a substantial bet on the steamboat race. The chance to win some real cash was hard to pass up. He nodded his head and got out of the carriage. Greg was about to go in when Wilcox's hand dropped onto his shoulder.

"You forgot these." A stack of silver coins shimmered like a moonlit lake in his hand.

"You don't trust me? I thought you said—"

"Of course I don't trust you. You're as smart as a Philadelphia lawyer. I checked how much the shoes were beforehand." He shrugged and smiled. "I lied."

**

* * *

**

Two days later, Greg's betting money still jangled in his pocket. Madam had gone on a cleaning frenzy, giving him a long list of chores to do, including soot patrol, the worst of all jobs. He scrubbed the oily grime from floors, walls, windows, woodwork, and furniture. When his arms ached from the exertion, he trimmed wicks and polished silver.

His piano time dwindled to fifteen minutes—only long enough for Archie eat his dinner. With not a minute to himself, his curiosity about Wilcox's story about Jacques went unquenched. He cleaned right up until the moment he collapsed into bed.

And Wilcox vanished again. Not a word or sign from him. Greg had mixed feelings whether he cared or not. Wilcox possessed annoying traits. He lied, manipulated, insulted, and bossed him around, but with a snap of a finger, he could be generous, treated him like an equal, and respected his intelligence and judgment. The man was a mysterious combination of dishonesty and sincerity, and both were getting under his skin.

*****

On the morning of the third day, Greg stepped to the side of the fireplace and wiped the sweat from his face onto his sleeve. He awaited Madam Adelaide's approval of the freshly polished mantel.

A knock at the front door drew Adelaide's attention from her inspection. She patted her hair and hurried to the entry, her silk dress swishing as she moved. Greg plucked the oil and supplies from the carpet in order to quickly vacate the parlor, but placed them down again when Adelaide returned with her guest.

"Greg, you have a visitor."

Wilcox stood awkwardly, legs apart, hat in his hand, a large, flimsy cardboard box under his arm.

"Greg."

"Wilcox."

Wilcox tossed his hat on a tufted blue velvet chair and thrust the box toward Greg. "All the clothes were ready faster than we expected. You'll find a complete change in here. Two valises filled with the rest are waiting in my carriage. You can bring them in later. Why don't you try these on and I'll take you someplace worthy of your new clothes." He spun and bowed his head toward Adelaide. "That is, with your kind, permission, Ma'am."

"I can't deny a gentleman anything, Mr. Wilcox." She answered with a toss of her head.

A gagging noise erupted from Greg's throat, but he quickly donned what he thought passed for an innocent expression. He pointed to the jar and rags next to the hearth, forced a cough, and touched his neck. "Fumes from the furniture polish."

He accepted the box from Wilcox. He wanted to toss the package aside, but it was his ticket to freedom. Greg was willing to wear a suit of chain mail if it meant he could get away from Madam Adelaide's list of chores and her critical eye. "I'll take you up on your offer."

"That's a big worry off of my mind." Wilcox answered. He stepped closer to Greg, sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose. "The furniture polish does wonders for your body odor, but take a bath before putting on your new clothes."

"Do you know how long that will take?" Greg whined.

Wilcox nudged his pocket watch from his vest pocket and checked the time. "I have lots of time, and in no hurry to part with my money. And on a warm day like this, you don't need much hot water." He smirked. "You can make up the time by skipping your shave."

**

* * *

**

Greg tried to watch as Wilcox tightened the ribbon tie around his neck, but his eyes kept crossing when he looked down.

Wilcox waved his hand toward the entry hall mirror when he finished and asked, "What do you think?"

"I think it's still damned uncomfortable." Greg ran a finger around the cuffs and the collar.

"You'll get used to it, and don't swear." Wilcox admonished, but his eyes gleamed as if he were Dr. Frankenstein doting on his creation. "You did grow a half-inch since the first time I saw you."

Greg looked at the images of Wilcox and himself in the mirror. He was slightly taller. With matching black suits, they looked eerily similar. Wilcox was heavier, but the dark vest hid the fact. Despite their differing eye color their skin tone matched closely, Greg's slightly darker due to running outside errands for the girls and cook. He licked his fingers and smoothed a cowlick. Without the oil in Wilcox's hair their hair color wasn't that much different…

"Are you going to preen in the mirror all day? Let's go." Wilcox turned and bowed to the Madam who stood, arms crossed, head tilted, her finger tapping her lips.

"You don't mind if we take your leave, Miss Adelaide?"

"Not at all, Mr. Wilcox. I got a fortnight's work out of him in the last two days plus a month's worth of lip. He's all yours."

Greg listened to the exchange, but something did not ring true.

Hours later the memory of those spoken words returned to him. They burned like bitter bile as he yelled at Wilcox, "You tricked me!"

.

.

_TBC_


	7. The Road To Hull

**[H]ouse Characters in this Chapter**

___Gregory House = Gregory Vaughn = Gregory Vaughn Hutchinson  
James Wilson = James Wilcox_

___

* * *

_

"You tricked me!"

"Greg, listen—"

"You got me drunk on purpose!"

"Not true. You poured the wine with your own hand."

"But you never stopped me. Not one sarcastic word throughout lunch!" Greg was seething with anger, but he could not prevent himself from admiring Wilcox's conniving ways. "You wanted me drunk so you could get me out into this Godforsaken countryside!" Another revelation hit him. "You planned this days ago. That's why the new clothes and haircut." His voice dipped low and he jeered. "You know what you are?"

Wilcox tipped back his hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and answered in a weary tone, "I have a notion I'm about to find out."

"You're lower than a bottom-feeding catfish. Lawyers cross to other side of the street when they see you coming."

"Don't forget I'm a liar," Wilcox added. He barely spoke the last word before he smothered a cough into his handkerchief. When he looked up he had a satisfied smile on his face. "But I did it for your mother's sake and for your own good."

Greg stood in the middle of the road. He wasn't sure if everything swam before his eyes due to the waves of heat streaming off the packed earth beneath his feet or the lingering effects of the wine.

Wilcox sat on the leather seat of the carriage. Despite shedding his jacket and vest, and rolling up his sleeves, he resembled a unpeeled boiled potato, with his sweaty shirt stuck to his skin and his face red.

Greg sucked in the thick muggy air and surveyed his surroundings. They were traveling north—a wall of green sugarcane to the right, the levee to the left, the sun dipping toward the horizon. They must have traveled for at least two hours.

He was mad that all it took was a day away from Madam Adelaide's watchful eye and a fancy lunch at the St. Charles to make him drop his guard.

Wilcox, with his easy charm, was up to something. He was the perfect host. Asked no personal questions this time, and ordered over half the dishes on the menu—many of them salty. There were so many plates, Greg could not stab the table with his fork without striking porcelain. Wilcox did not even object when Greg snatched a handful of pommes frites from right beneath his fork.

Under the impression that the lunch was a minor celebration and Wilcox in a genial mood, Greg took advantage of the situation and asked Wilcox questions, but Wilcox sidestepped every one or answered evasively. All he said about what he did for a living was that he traveled.

Greg shook his head. _He should have known._

He left the dining room mostly under his own power, occasionally bumping shoulders with Wilcox who walked beside him. He was in a rose-tinted haze, and when Wilcox asked if he would mind venturing a few miles out of town to see a friend's new trotter, Greg agreed readily. The heat, wine, and steady hoof beats of the carriage ride lulled him to sleep, but eventually, the wine wore off and Wilcox's coughing dragged him awake. That's when he discovered they were in the middle of nowhere.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he complained, "Where does your friend live, Ohio?"

"We're almost there." Wilcox pulled back on the reins.

"Why are we stopping?"

Wilcox brought a book from under the seat, a Bible, the one from Adelaide's. He leaned forward. "It's time I explained."

"Damn! Get away from me!" Greg wriggled away. "I don't want saving!"

"What?" Wilcox looked stunned for a moment and then regained his composure. He thumped on the cover. "I'm not in a position to do any saving. Bibles have other uses."

Greg breathed easier, but then Wilcox continued.

"I want to help you."

"How?" Greg slid away from Wilcox and moved closer to the carriage opening.

"You're a smart kid. Your intelligence is wasted at Madam Adelaide's. I've made arrangements for you to go to a private school."

Still not thinking logically, Greg blurted, "How can I work for Adelaide and go to a school this far away?"

"You can't. Hull Academy is a boarding school. You no longer take orders from Madam Adelaide."

"Why not?" Greg asked, but he had sobered up enough from the revelation to piece together the answer on his own; he wanted to hear it from Wilcox's lips.

Wilcox looked uncomfortable. "I paid off your mother's debt. You're free of the bordello."

"And I owe you instead."

"You owe me nothing, but you owe yourself an education."

Wilcox placed his hand on Greg's shoulder, but Greg scrabbled out of the carriage.

And here he was on a dusty road miles from New Orleans, yelling at Wilcox for playing another one of his dirty tricks. This was the last straw. Greg trudged away from the buggy.

"Hey!" Wilcox shouted. He turned around the carriage. "You don't intend to walk all the way back to New Orleans?"

"Yes I do." Greg kept walking and heard the clip-clop of the horse's hooves following close behind.

Wilcox drew alongside and cooed, "There's a private library filled with thousands of books. The complete works of Shakespeare, not just the tragedies."

Greg continued at the same pace, head down, watching for rocks and ruts in the road as if he did not hear, but he understood Wilcox's message. The high school contained only Shakespeare's tragedies. The Board deemed the comedies too bawdy.

Wilcox crooned, "Plato, Socrates in the original Greek. Julius Caesar's personal account of his campaigns in Gaul."

"Won't do me any good. Can't read Greek or Latin." Greg spat out, but Wilcox was getting to him. "Are there girls at the school or pretty housemaids?"

"Not every fancy house is a bordello, Greg. They're serious about instilling a good education. Besides the classics, there are chemistry, algebra, and history classes that cover topics other than the Civil War. French, Spanish—"

He cut off Wilcox's seductive words. "Have you gone soft in the head? I know French, Spanish, and German. I live in New Orleans, you know."

"Maybe you learned how to cuss in—"

"No. The whole shootin' match, actual sentences." He glanced up to see what effect English was having on his tormentor, when his right foot stepped into a hole and his leg twisted. The earth rushed up to his face, but his hands broke his fall.

Wilcox was instantly at his side, arms wrapped around his waist, supporting him while he gained his balance.

"Are you all right?" Wilcox grasped his shoulders and inspected him, brushing the dirt from his shirt. Wilcox next checked his palms.

Greg curled his fingers into fists to prevent Wilcox from seeing his scraped skin, but it was sore and already swelling. Wilcox gently pried his hands open. Bloody slash marks streaked across his flesh.

"I'm fine," Greg insisted, wiping his stinging palms against the fine wool of his pants, leaving behind a ghostly smear. He stomped the ground and tested his legs. He was steady enough to continue. He set off again, faster and more determined not to be persuaded by anything Wilcox might say or do.

"Must you be so bull-headed? You can't make it to New Orleans on foot." Wilcox said, completely exasperated. "It's over fifteen miles."

Greg looked straight ahead and answered, "I'll make it," but under his breath he added, "by Mardi Gras."

Wilcox spoke slow and deliberately, "Not with _that foot,_ you won't."

Greg froze in his tracks. He recognized that Wilcox's statement was calculated to stun and stop him. Well, it did, and he was going to ensure Wilcox would be sorry he ever said it.

He pivoted and aimed his shot carefully. "Who's going to stop me? You? You can't walk a dozen steps without busting into a consumptive coughing fit. You wear black to hide the stains of your bloody spittle."

"Why you, stubborn, ungrateful whelp, you're just like your—" Wilcox choked on the end of his sentence and sucked in a wheezing breath as if the air were made of molasses. He sunk down on the carriage step and fought a losing battle with a string of gasping coughs.

Greg's victory was short-lived as he watched Wilcox double over, but he realized this was a perfect opportunity to get away. He squared his shoulders, turned around, and marched back toward New Orleans, leaving the sound of the barking cough behind him.

Greg considered the chances of hitching a ride on a passerby's wagon and his spirits lifted. Wilcox was forgotten. Completely forgotten. The meddling ass meant nothing to him.

_Oh, hell._

He headed back.

Wilcox hadn't moved. His forehead rested upon his hand. Greg could see Wilcox concentrating all his attention to drawing in unbroken breaths of air, but failing. His cheeks flushed red from fever and he shivered.

Not asking, Greg hooked the coat jacket off the seat and draped it around Wilcox's shoulders. He searched for the canteen he had seen earlier and shook the brown container in front of Wilcox, sloshing the contents invitingly.

Wilcox waved away the water, but croaked, "The blue one."

Another search yielded the second. He blinked away tears from the whisky fumes when he twisted off the cap, and passed the canteen to Wilcox, who raised the canteen shakily to his mouth and swallowed. Greg squirmed and made room for himself on the step, his shoulder and arm rubbing uncomfortably close to Wilcox.

While Wilcox's breathing smoothed, Greg concentrated on the ragged bits of skin on his hands, pinching away loose shreds, and pressing his thumb against the oozing cuts. When all was silent, except the cawing of birds and the muffled horn of a distant steamboat, Greg stumbled out a question. "Why can't I stay with you?"

The dark brown eyes crinkled good-naturedly with no trace of anger, but Wilcox shook his head. "I don't have enough education to fill your head and keep you from getting bored. Don't have the books. Besides… " Wilcox shrugged his shoulders.

"Besides, what?" Greg urged.

"You know... my lungs. Heard dry mountain air is good for tuberculosis. Spent almost all my money settling your mother's debt and paying a year's tuition in advance to Hull. Had just enough cover the price of a one-way train ticket out West to stay with a relative."

Wilcox fluttered open the side of his coat, and Greg glimpsed the top of the ticket in the inside breast pocket. He felt sorry and angry at the same time for Wilcox, the lying Don Quixote.

"You were going to abandon me at a hick school?"

"A college preparatory school. It's better than Adelaide's. And as soon as I get better, I planned to return."

"But if you die, I'm left alone with no place to go," Greg answered gruffly.

"Not comforting for either of us, but don't count on me going anywhere except away from New Orleans. The dust and humidity are too much for me." The corner of Wilcox's mouth tilted up in a half-smile. "But if I did die, with one more year of education under your belt, I wouldn't put it past you to discover the secret of everlasting life and how to raise the dead."

Damn, Wilcox knew just how to charm him.

"How many books did you say the school had?"

Wilcox seemed to take heart at the question and regained his strength with surprising haste. His silky voice surged with energy. He stood up and ambled over to the other side of the carriage, getting in as he talked, patting the seat next to him in invitation. "Thousands, leather-bound, gilt-edged… You're going to love the place… but there's a few details I need to tell you first."

**

* * *

**

Greg listened to everything Wilcox told him and focus on the flyleaf of the bible he held in his lap as the bench seat jiggled. Most of the information flew past his head as his eyes roamed over the inside cover and the flyleaf. Names filled the two sides like leaves forming a canopy, and a permutation of his name anchored the tree. "What? My name isn't Gregory Vaughn Hutchinson." Actually his name read, Gregory 'V-_ink spot_' Hutchinson, below the names of Alice 'V-_ink spot'_ Wilcox and Elijah Hutchinson.

Wilcox tapped the Bible in affirmation. "Now it is. You're no longer Greg Vaughn, but Greg Hutchinson and this is _your_ family Bible. Proof that you're legitimate and from a good family."

"I'm not ashamed of my mother or who I am." He squinted down at the pages. Different colored inks in curlicues, slanting in different directions sprawled over the paper. He angled the book. If someone knew what to look for, they'd recognize that all the ancestors were written by the same hand—variations of Wilcox's flowery handwriting.

"You shouldn't be, but you do need to keep your mouth shut about it. All the students are from wealthy families with fancy lineages. You needed a family tree and a last name nobody would recognize."

Before he could ask about the strategic splashes of ink, Wilcox explained, "I know that Vaughn is a common name in the South, but I don't want to take a chance on anyone making a connection that you and your mother lived at Adelaide's." He spoke in a tender tone. "I knew you would want to honor your mother, and I made a compromise. You're still Gregory Vaughn, but you're better off as Gregory 'illegible V' Hutchinson if anyone should look in the Bible."

Greg scanned the names. There was James Earnest Wilcox nestled among two other men's names in a swarm of brothers and sisters listed under their "mutual" grandparents. He swallowed down a rising lump. Wilcox was willing to share his last name with his mother, and from the tree they were now cousins. "Are these other Wilcox's your family? Who are the Hutchinsons?"

"For the most part I used relatives' names. Easier to hide a lie in the truth."

"You should know." He bit out without thinking and quickly glanced at Wilcox to see if he took offense before asking, "Are we cousins?"

"Not that I know of, though Vaughns, Wilcoxes, and Hutchinsons fairly litter half of Georgia."

"Where in Georgia?" Greg pounced on the news.

"Your mother never told you about your kin?" Wilcox's eyes filled with regret and he went calm as the Mississippi in the middle of July. He sighed. "No harm I suppose in you knowing. Many members died during the War. Suppose it hurt your mother to talk about her family."

Wilcox became quiet for the rest of the journey, probably lost in his own thoughts about the war.

Between the ersatz family tree and the information that Wilcox believed was minor, Greg thought he had struck the mother lode. His mind roamed over the possibilities as the carriage swung into Hull Academy's tree shaded alley, and he barely noticed the blush of sunset spreading over the plantation house. Before he had time to realize what happened, his benefactor relinquished him to his new jailer, Captain John Hull.

.

.

TBC

* * *

_Thank you for reading. Reviews welcome!_


	8. A Dark Place

**A/N:** Sorry about improper letter format. ff defeated me. :(

* * *

**[H]ouse Characters in this Chapter**

_Gregory House = Gregory Vaughn = Gregory Vaughn Hutchinson_

_James Wilson = James Wilcox_

_John House = Colonel John Hull_

_Chris Taub = Christian Thibeau_

_.  
_

* * *

_Dear Wilcox,_

_ Hope this letter finds you in relatively good spirits (imbibing good whisky),_

_and in the same feverish fog that led you to this "Hull" hole and dump_

_me here. Are you happy, you do-gooder asshole? You couldn't leave me in a_

_fancy bordello full of sweet-smelling, fluttery women, could you?_

_.  
_

_ Leather bound, gilded books, you said. Latin and Greek and Shakespeare,_

_you said. Didn't you notice the best books were behind glass doors with_

_working locks?_

_.  
_

_ Hull is a miserly, raging maniac—that's from the Greek, maniakos, if you_

_didn't know. See how much I learned in a week?_

_ As for Latin, Hull insisted on pronouncing 'Ch' for 'C' and 'W' for 'V,'_

_as if he's the last reigning Emperor or the current Pope. We had a long, philo-_

_sophical discussion about that. It ended with me at the wrong end of his_

_disciplinary cane. I came, I saw, I want out._

_.  
_

_ Latin isn't the only thing that's dead. You are, if I ever see you again._

_.  
_

_ Yours disrespectfully,_

_ Gregory Vaughn "Hutch" Hutchinson_

* * *

Hutch added an extra splat of ink below his signature to serve as the date. He watched the glistening strokes dry upon the page while he sat patiently, straddling a kitchen chair as the man behind him patiently applied ointment to the swollen welts on his back. He crumpled the paper into a ball and lifted it. "Mail it, Thibeau."

The crunched up paper magically disappeared as Christian Thibeau did his bidding. "Oui, Hutch."

Thibeau walked to the other side of the room, opened the woodstove door, and tossed the letter into the smoldering fire. "C'est mailed."

He returned to Hutch with a spoon, a hunk of crusty bread, and a steamy bowl of chicken soup, and laid everything on the table. "Hull told me you were not to eat anything but bread and water. Broth is only flavored water, yes? And it's not my fault if meat and vegetables get caught in the ladle, no?"

Hutch broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the golden liquid. A chicken breast the size of a raft was caught on a seabed of carrots and celery. "I thought Hull inventoried how many chickens went into the pot. Won't you get into trouble?"

"It's not worth his time when I've finished cutting a bird into gentlemanly bites. He's a "Hull" of a man, my boss." Thibeau deadpanned.

One swallow of the aromatic fluid, and the throbbing of Hutch's back lessened. The moist meat melted on his tongue and he involuntarily blinked with contentment. The cook and general all-around servant had become Hutch's only friend at the Academy. Thibeau freely shared stories about his family and was never above joking about the Colonel. What Hutch conceived as a calculated plan of escape had transformed into friendship.

Almost immediately, the small Cajun with the big nose and receding hairline had taken to calling him Hutch, and the nickname dissolved some of his defenses. He liked the alias and did not correct him. The best part of his day was spent with Thibeau.

"Thibeau you should be head chef at the St. Charles."

"You flatter me, Hutch." Thibeau beamed. "Maybe one day I'll own a restaurant. Then I can have my family around me. I'll never worry about them starving."

"How big's your family, again?" The details of Thibeau's family always slipped Hutch's memory, maybe because Thibeau could never keep the tally straight.

"Eight or ten children." He shrugged. "I get to see Rachelle once every six months. Last time I went home, I was just in time to boil the water for the mid-wife and see my newborn twin boys."

Not much stopped the steady progression of a spoon to his mouth, but this news did. "You mean every three months don't you?"

"No, mon ami. I go home for Christmas and the Fourth of July."

"The last time was Christmas?"

"Oui."

"The time before that was July?"

"Oui." The answer was soft and patient, but the dark eyes glinted with humor. Thibeau raised his hands as if to fend off the next attack on his mathematical skills and intelligence." My wife is a beautiful woman who was never meant to be alone. Many of the children have the Thibeau nose, and many do not. Meanwhile, all those old enough to stand on two legs come running to greet me with shouts of, 'Papa!' whenever I come home. I'm a rich man."

Phantom pain streaked across Hutch's heart. The man in front of him gave half the children in the Bayou his name, but Hutch had no father of his own. In a few weeks, Thibeau would be going home to visit his family, and Hutch would serve out his prison sentence alone under the baleful gaze of Colonel Hull.

* * *

The first time Greg saw the white-haired Colonel, he was standing at full attention on the veranda, hands clasped behind his back. Hull had the unmistakable bearing of an officer. Just another gray man in another gray uniform. A warhorse put out to pasture before his time. Greg had seen his fill of these bitter men in New Orleans.

At the sight of Hull, Wilcox's informal posture stiffened as if he were following an order. There was a sharp snap and vigor to everything he did. He yanked the valise from behind the seat and approached the passenger's side of the buggy.

Hull showed his teeth in a crocodile smile, his eyes predatory. He nodded, and a small man in an apron scurried from inside the house, bowed, and took the case from Wilcox. The man lifted his eyes toward Greg and consigned a shy smile in his direction.

Not until Greg stepped from the carriage did Hull join them. His smooth salutation caught in his teeth as his eyes darted to Greg's new but mismatched shoes. The wrinkles around the mouth set into hard lines. "Welcome to Hull Academy, Mr. Wilcox, Master… Hutchinson."

Wilcox must have spotted the glance because Greg felt a warm hand rest protectively on his shoulder. He looked at Wilcox, hoping for a signal to return to the carriage and leave. Instead Wilcox apologized for being late and said smoothly, "Greg didn't believe me when I told him about the many wonders of your home and school. Would you kindly give us a tour?"

The question cleverly aimed at Hull's vanity. His eyes gleamed and his officer's demeanor took on more of the Southern gentleman. He waved them into his home. Wilcox respectfully removed his hat and flicked Greg's brim prodding him to do the same as they stepped inside.

Wilcox never left Greg's side, flashing warnings at him whenever Greg so much as twitched his lips. More out of curiosity to see the house than respect for Wilcox, Greg held his tongue while Wilcox put on an appreciative show, nodding and looking properly impressed as Hull led them from room to room, extolling on the custom woodwork and windows, the loftiness of the ceilings painted with fluffy clouds. He pointed out and named the exotic hardwoods in the paneling and in the borders of the hardwood floors. He never commented on the furniture in the parlor and dining room. The furnishings were sparse and not the same quality as the structure. All the other rooms on the main floor were filled with serviceable tables, chairs, and desks. Hollow footsteps accompanied them from room to room because of the lack of rugs and curtains.

Hull led the small expedition up a curved staircase, blatantly checking Greg on every other step. Greg was fine as long as he held on to the banister and watched where his right foot landed, but he felt self-conscious and tempted to disregard common sense. As if reading his mind, Wilcox edged ahead of him and obstructed the Colonel's view. He paid for his good deed when they reached the top, and coughed quietly into his ever-present handkerchief. Hull stood impatiently, apparently annoyed at the fitness of his recruits, but Wilcox waved them on; before they were halfway down the hall, Wilcox had caught up and was back at Greg's side.

Except for the two formal rooms downstairs, and a locked master suite on the upper level, everything else was converted to classrooms. They circled back to the staircase. Greg asked, "Where do I sleep? On top of the chemistry table?"

Without looking behind him as he walked down the stairs, Hull explained in a flat, dismissive voice, "Out back. The carriage house was converted into a barracks for you young bachelors. Since the school year ended, only a couple of boys are here. You'll have most of the building to yourself. The cookhouse is not far away. All the students love Thibeau's cooking. The only time you'll come to the main house is for daily tutoring with me. You need to get ready for the upcoming year."

Greg sized up the situation. Hull had turned his home into a school to save it from falling into the hands of the taxmen like many family homes. Not for the joy of stimulating young minds. No matter. He'd prefer to stay in the adjoining sharecropper's cabins or the stable than anywhere in Hull's vicinity.

His cynical attitude slipped when they entered the library. The room was perceptibly cooler than the rest of the rooms and less bright. Thick curtains hung from the windows to protect the books—thousands of books. Evidence that Wilcox did not lie about everything. The room was two-stories high with a spiral staircase leading to a gallery, the turnings and banister elaborately carved like the trim on a steamboat. The walls were paneled in volumes, matching sets and individual books in a myriad of muted colors. The musty smell of paper and leather assailed his senses. Compared to the incense and exalted atmosphere of St. Louis Cathedral, it was more intoxicating. A heavy silence emanated from the tomes—each a tombstone marking the life and death of an author or an event. Greg yearned to turn the pages of every book and release the spirits that dwelled in them.

Glass fronted-cabinets covered one wall. Greg walked over to inspect what was inside. The books were either exquisitely bound or about ready to crumble into dust. He opened a door, but before he could pluck a book from the shelf, Hull barked an explanation, "Those books are one-of-a-kind or first editions." He clearly meant, _hands off_.

"Thibeau." The authority in Hull's voice made the summons a command. His servant appeared as if he had been waiting outside the room.

"Show Master Hutchinson his sleeping quarters while Mr. Wilcox and I finish our business arrangements in my office." Without waiting for a reaction, Hull left the room.

Wilcox followed, but halted when a string of thin coughs shook his body. Thibeau nodded over Wilcox's strangled words and disappeared from the room, evidently empathizing with his need to collect himself. As soon as Wilcox and Greg were alone the sudden attack vanished.

Remorse and desperation showed on Wilcox's face. "Greg, I may have been hasty in choosing this school for you. If you don't want to stay, I'll take you back to New Orleans, but I don't have the funds or time to find another school. Hull won't refund the tuition, and my train leaves tomorrow. The best I can do is ask Jacques if he could find a job for you at the St. Charles."

Greg considered his options. Put up with Hull's arrogance, wash dirty dishes, or take direction from the obnoxious fat kid behind the registration desk. There was always Madam Adelaide's…

A finger wagged in his face. "Don't even consider going back to the bordello. Adelaide will work you day and night for next to nothing. You won't have a dollar to your name. Before you realize what happened, you'll be up to your nonexistent whiskers in debt."

Wilcox was right. If he went back, he'd never be able to leave. No one left Adelaide's with good references, especially if you were valuable to her. His mother was barely cold when Adelaide pinned the blame on the cook and fired him. He had to travel to Lafayette to get a job.

Clammy sweat clung to his palms as he thought of his future and blurted, "I can't stand this place for a whole a year."

"How about six months? I promise to return by then… or somebody will."

"Seriously, Wilcox? You'll probably be dead under three. Who's gonna care enough to come without you nagging them?"

A grimace twitched Wilcox's mouth. "Look, I might have hammed up the coughing while we were on the River Road. All I need is to rest for a while. I'll be back."

Greg believed Wilcox's admission about his dramatics, but doubted his understanding regarding the depth and persistence of his cough and fever. A brief sojourn in dry mountain air would do little to remedy what ailed him. Without thinking, he wiped his palms off on his pants forgetting about the scrapes from earlier. A stinging sensation snaked through his hands snapping him out of doldrums. Except for this once, Wilcox always lied to him. Why not make this his first lesson at Hull. Learn how to be cagey to get what he wanted. He mustered the guileless tone that never seemed to work on his mother or Adelaide, but did well with strangers. "You promise? You'll be back in six months?"

"Less, if I recover faster," Wilcox said with a warm, sincere smile. "I have to finish with Hull, but I'll say goodbye before I leave."

Greg hung his head, partially for effect, and partially to hide his pleasure over how well Wilcox was buying his forlorn act. He savored turning the tables on his wily opponent as he heard Wilcox's retreating footsteps. He adamantly refused to rely on Wilcox. From now on he was determined to make every observation and remark count toward his own escape.

Thibeau's timing could not be better. He rounded the corner and beckoned Greg to follow him to his new quarters. The easy smile on the man's face told Greg all he needed to know. He returned the greeting with a shy one of his own while schooling his face not to reveal his thoughts. Thibeau would make the perfect lab rat for his experiment.

* * *

"Hutch? Hutch?"

Thibeau gently woke him from his slumber, dangling his shirt in front of his face. He'd fallen asleep at the kitchen table, his head cradled in his arms, the bowl of soup gone. "Mhmm?"

"You best skedaddle back to the carriage house before the Colonel makes his nightly rounds. Unless you are studying with him, stick to the rules and stay out of his way. Can you do that?"

"You sound like Wilcox." Hutch groaned. He stiffly rose from the chair and hooked his shirt with a finger. "His farewell words to me were, 'Behave like a gentleman.'"

"Good advice, which you ignored. If I were you, I wouldn't push the Colonel too far."

"Has he killed anyone?" Hutch asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Many." Thibeau assured.

Hutch dropped his jaw in amazement.

"In the War," Thibeau finished, his eyes sparkling with glee from his jest.

Too tired to smile or ask more questions, Hutch shuffled to the kitchen door. "'Night, Thibeau."

"Bonne nuit, Hutch."

.

.

When he entered the carriage house he was relieved to hear the drone of snores wafting from the end of the room. He avoided the creaky third step as he climbed the stairs. Only two other students, Harry Newton and Dale Goodwin, occupied the premises. Thibeau had explained that each month alumni would return like stray dogs looking for food and shelter until the week before school commenced. Then there would be a flood of new and old faces. If Tweedledum and Tweedledee were examples of the rest of the Academy's scholars, his life would be made a living "Hull." They were prigs and pompous snobs who went out of their way to ignore him. He wasted no time trying to persuade them otherwise, eating meals at different times, and bunking alone on the stuffy second floor.

* * *

He managed not to piss anyone off for over a week, which worked well with his master plan.

Successfully completing another session with Hull without starting another war of words, Hutch sought the privacy and shade of a sprawling oak at the back of the property—not all that distant from the house. As he suspected, the income producing fields were sold off to save the home. Hutch eased his back against the trunk, testing the rough bark. Five ghostly yellow stripes were all that remained from the previous week's lashing. Hull expected him to bury his nose in a book about conjugating Latin verbs, but he brought Wilcox's Bible with him instead. He wanted to spend an afternoon deciphering the family tree. Figure out if any of the people could be friends or relatives of his mother.

First, he traced any birthdates close to Alice's age. The two that fit best were Wilcox and his brother, Howard, older by four years. He noted a third brother, Denis, but he died in infancy. Knowing Wilcox, he had no idea whether these brothers were alive, dead, or completely imaginary. His original misgiving returned to him. Wilcox's moniker might not be any more real than any of these others. More likely he belonged hanging off a branch of a Caribbean pirate's family tree.

And what was Wilcox about to say on their trip to the school? He closed his eyes and concentrated. Something about stubborn. _Stubborn just like your— _Like who? Not his mother. She was loyal and loving. She had a prideful streak, but she was practitioner of Southern charm, persuasive, much like Wilcox. Not what he would call stubborn. Who was Wilcox comparing him to?

The sound of dirt grinding beneath thick-soled shoes broke into his thoughts. He opened his eyes upon a pair of fancy riding boots. Leaning his head back he saw Goodwin's face looking down on him, a sneer adding interest to his bland features. Newton's hovered right behind, nearly a twin image.

Hutch inwardly sighed. This day had been coming and the timing was right. He might as well get it over with. "What do you want?"

"Reading the Bible, Hutch? Praying to Our Father for deliverance?"

Hutch closed the book and laid it carefully by his side, taking his time. "Does that surprise you, _Godwin_? You've been here longer than me, and from your less than brilliant grades, you'll still be here when I'm gone. You should be praying with me."

"It's Goodwin!" Dale bellowed needlessly. "You been snoopin' at my scores? I knew you were a weasel the first time I saw you. Ain't that right, Newt?"

"Right, Win."

"Win, yeah, that's a hoot and holler," Hutch snorted, mildly amused by the good ole' boy patois Dale adopted when upset. "Reckon that's a proper name for a carpetbagger's son since you'll never be a true Southerner." He kept his voice calm as he observed both boys' hands roll into fists.

"Take that back! I'm Creole!"

"Your daddy buying a Creole home and living in it, doesn't make you a Creole, idiot." He shook his head in mock disappointment. "You're making it easy for me to prove that you ain't, I mean, you aren't smart."

He instinctively reached for the tree trunk to support his bad foot as he straightened up from the ground, surreptitiously sizing the two boys up as he dusted himself off. He spied Newton cupping his hand over Goodwin's ear and whispering. He wondered what they were up to. They were a head shorter than him but brawnier. Maybe he should delay his scheme until he could get one alone. "Damn. One minute with you two, and I'm talking like a hick. You'll pardon me while I find better ways to waste my time."

"In what ways would that be, huh? Horseback riding? Hiking? Fencing?" Goodwin taunted with regained confidence, his pronunciation and grammar much improved. He thrust out his chest. "You planning on wasting your time with one of those gentlemanly pursuits, Hutch the Crutch?"

"Why you—!" Hutch lost his temper and launched himself against the wall of bullies, his fists punching any body part he could contact, but his opportunity was brief as four fists slammed back and pummeled him to the ground. The last thing he remembered was the salty taste of blood in his mouth.

* * *

"You're a troublemaker!" Hull hissed. "How dare you insult my students and start a fight. I should have followed my instincts and doubled your tuition when I met you."

"See if I care if you double it," Hutch mumbled through his swollen lips. "I'll gladly leave in half the time."

"Wilcox and I agreed on the terms. We shook hands. There's no way I'm going back on an agreement with a lieutenant of the Confederacy."

"Wilcox, an officer?" The words slipped out before Hutch could stop himself. The thought of Wilcox bayoneting a man was unimaginable.

The Colonel grew pensive and chewed his bottom lip. "I spoke out of turn. Many men don't want to talk about what they did or saw in the War. Surgeons as well fighting men."

Hutch almost forgot his aching bruises as he pictured Wilcox's hands in a soldier's stomach, his arms covered with blood up to his elbows. Some of his anger seeped away as he absorbed the news, but then he remembered. Wilcox was not above lying to get what he wanted. He may have manufactured the story to cut a favorable deal with Hull.

He was roused from his thoughts by a harsh guttural noise. Hull cleared his throat.

"Are you listening to me?" The sour tone was back in Hull's voice.

"In spite of trying hard not to, I am."

"Listen, you smart alec. Listen real good. You're in my charge and not leaving here until I break you of your arrogance."

"Canings won't change my opinion of you or your school."

"Not every punishment starts with a whipping, boy." Hull's eyes glittered in the afternoon sun. "But you can depend that all end with one. There's kitchen detail and icehouse duty. It's high time I give you a personal tour of the property. Get up and follow me."

Hutch had no choice but to trail after Hull.

Set off from the outbuildings was a windowless stone structure nestled in a grove of trees. Low to the ground, the wooden door nearly met the curved roofline. Hull shot the bolt and opened it. A chill whispery breath greeted Hutch.

"Not much ice left in June. The interior is no colder than the snowy nights our ragged soldiers coped with in Rappahannock Valley. Let's see if spending a night in the icehouse can cool off that hot head of yours. Get in."

Hull pushed him. Hutch barely had time to duck his head before he stumbled down the short flight of steps. The air was frosty. An icy tongue laved his skin, leaving goosebumps. His teeth began to chatter. "Hull, I don't have a coat. I'll freeze to death in here!"

"If you're resourceful, you'll survive. We'll have to wait until morning to find out if you are or not. And if you are, then it will be my pleasure to warm your hide with a tanning you won't forget."

The light narrowed as Hull swung the door closed. Hutch lunged for it, but tripped on a step as the last slice of light fled the room with the sound of a sickening thud. He panicked and raked the wood with his nails. "Hull! Come back!" he shouted, but was met with silence. He leaned his head against the door, muttering over and over that this was an icehouse not tomb. Finally, he calmed and slid to the floor, shivering from a combination of fear and cold. He had overplayed his hand and gotten in deeper than he ever dreamed.

.

.

TBC

* * *

_Thank you for reading! All comments welcome._


	9. A New Direction

_**[H]ouse Characters In Part Eight**_

_Gregory House = Gregory V. "Hutch" Hutchinson_

_Chris Taub = Christian Thibeau_

_Edward Vogler = Ethan Vogle_

_[H]ouse Character = ?_

.

A blast of thunder, rasping wood, creaking metal, and Hutch's dark world fell away. His frozen body thudded onto the other side of the threshold like a spent cannonball. Warm humid air enveloped him, warm, sweet grass cushioned his numb cheeks, and warm arms lifted him off the ground. Hutch twisted his head and saw a bright full moon and a large shiny nose.

"Mon dieu! Hutch, speak to me," Thibeau urged, kneeling next to him.

Sawdust and straw leaked out from his shirt and pants as he shivered. Hutch was a living scarecrow. Unable to stop his teeth from chattering, incoherent Morse code emitted from his frozen lips.

Thibeau immediately flung off his shirt, buttons splashing into the air, and tucked it around him. The toasty fabric cursorily warmed his skin.

"Don't move, I'll be right back," Thibeau assured. Before Hutch grasped that Thibeau had left, he returned, and covered Hutch in blankets that smelled of horse. Hutch felt hands traveling over the blanket, gently rubbing his arms and legs. Slowly, he regained his speech, and the soothing sensation transformed into uncomfortable prickles. His limbs began to burn.

"S-s-stop! The s-sawdust is s-scraping my skin."

A satisfied gleam lit up Thibeau's eyes. "That's a good sign when you and your body protest my help. You were smart to pad your clothes with the insulation for the ice. Otherwise…" The Adam's apple in Thibeau's throat bobbed, but he did not finish the sentence.

Not admitting to his initial panic, Hutch responded with a curt nod. He had intended to scrape off whatever material retarded the blocks from melting, when he stumbled over a small barrel of sawdust in the dark. A shallow pile of hay lay next to it. He shoved as much material into his clothes without busting the seams, and returned to the door. Logically it was the warmest place in the room since it was three steps up and not made of stone.

Thibeau threaded his arms under Hutch's armpits, encouraging him to stand. "If I help you, can you walk to the kitchen house? The stove can finish the job I started."

Hutch nodded. When he was on his feet, he pulled the blanket snugly over his hunched shoulders and trudged to the kitchen. Grateful to his rescuer, he ignored his pride when Thibeau clutched his arm, and steadied him.

* * *

Fresh clothes and a mug of hot tea in his hands, Hutch sat contentedly at the kitchen table, feasting on thick slices of ham and bread, reveling in an occasional bead of sweat dripping from his temples. He would never complain again about hot weather. Street corner preachers were dead wrong about how scorching hell was. If there was one, it was an iceberg.

From the moment they entered the kitchen Thibeau buzzed furiously about, but his mouth stayed unaccustomedly silent. Bypassing the lamp because of the bright moonlight, he made his way to the stove, and stoked its belly with wood. In minutes heat radiated from the interior. A basin of water and towels appeared on the table with a little pot of salve for the bruised lip. Thibeau then excused himself on the pretext of doing errands and left Hutch to clean up in privacy.

His back to the the stove, Hutch was caught by surprise when Thibeau returned carrying a full set of clothes. He blushed pink from heat and embarrassment. Thibeau discreetly turned away and concentrated on food preparation, giving Hutch a few minutes to hasten into his pants and shirt.

The swish of a broom accompanied Hutch while he ate. When he swallowed down the last bite, he asked the question that was uppermost on his mind, but tempered his voice to sound braver and far more humorous than he felt. "How many hours before sunrise? I'll have to go back to the icehouse before Hull discovers I'm missing or there will be 'Hull' to pay. He intends to start his day by giving me another whipping."

Thibeau sank into the kitchen chair across from him, cut a slice of bread, and handed it to Hutch. Hutch accepted the offering, but placed it on the table, and watched Thibeau pull tufts of bread from the loaf, crushing them into little balls of dough.

"This was all Hull's doing, Hutch. I swear I knew nothing about your punishment. He's never done anything this crazy before."

Hutch knew Thibeau would never go along with such a scheme. He was about to say something when Thibeau continued.

"Of course, I heard about your scuffle with the boys, but before I could find you, Hull found me and sent me on an errand to Sugar Hill to advise the owner about building a smokehouse. A genial man, he insisted I join him for supper and sample his chef's cooking. He wanted me to stay the night, but my Cajun bones told me something was wrong." Thibeau shook his head and punched a finger into the tablecloth. "Hull deliberately sent me away. When I returned and found none of the food stolen from the larder then, naturellement, I worried, and searched for you." Thibeau rubbed at his eyes. "Merde, I hate to think what could have happened, if you ate like a cat and not a circus elephant."

Hutch accepted the insult as a sign of manly affection. "You don't have to explain. I know you prefer disparaging me to my face and not to my corpse." He yawned, and stifled a shudder. "What time is it?"

"It's about time you and I escaped this 'Hull' hole. If we leave now, we should reach New Orleans before dawn. Before anyone here is awake."

"You mean it?" Hutch's voice cracked. This was his plan all along; earn Thibeau's trust and sympathy and help smuggle him back to New Orleans. But it was more of a fantasy or a game to help him forget his misery than something he really expected to come true. "You're not playing with me, are you?"

"No. I can't have it on my conscience if you were seriously hurt, and it's almost time for me to visit my family. I'll surprise them a little earlier, that's all." Thibeau made a quick sign of the cross. "Hopefully, the summer heat is all Rachelle needs right now to warm her bed. I don't relish calling out any of my children's fathers in a duel." Thibeau pushed up from the table. "Are you ready, mon ami? I packed your belongings and mine while you were roasting your ass by the fire. You can sleep in the wagon."

Hutch stuffed half the bread in his mouth and gulped it down. "I need to do one thing before we go."

"Is it important?"

"Yes. There's something of mine in the main house."

"I don't understand. I have your clothes and Bible. Why risk getting caught by Hull?"

"Don't worry, Hull's a heavy sleeper, I've done this before. Give me ten minutes."

"All right, Hutch." Thibeau gave up with a sigh. "Meet me at the side road near the sharecropper's cabins."

* * *

Hutch moved as swiftly as he dared without creating any noise. He told the truth to Thibeau about doing this before, at least the execution, but not for the same prize. Last time, he hunted for information about Hull and his fellow students. This time he wanted what belonged to him, or to be exact, to Wilcox.

He stopped at the first classroom and commandeered a quill knife from the teacher's desk. A small handled, sturdy instrument with a thin, sharp blade. He proceeded to Hull's office and deftly probed the door's lock with the knife. His ear caught the sound of a metallic click, and he slipped into the room, gently closing the door behind him. This room was curtained like the library, but moonlight illuminated the desk from a thin slit where the drapes left a gap.

He went to the desk and tested the bottom right-hand drawer. Locked. A good sign that his hunch was right. Madame Adelaide stowed her moneybox in the right bottom drawer of her desk, and his mother and most of the girls stored their keepsakes and jewelry boxes in the same location in their dressing tables. A few twists and prods coupled with rattling the handle, and the drawer glided open. His heart leaped in his chest when he saw a strongbox. Inhaling deeply, he once again poked the knife into the lock, but it stopped at the opening. The edge was too thick. Wedging the tip of the blade under the lid, he tried to pry the cover open, but the blade snapped in the lock. _Damn!_ He was out of time.

Hutch shut the drawer, tucked the box under his arm, and hitched over to the door, opening it a few inches. No sounds or telltale footsteps echoed from upstairs. He moved as silently and smoothly as possible to the back door, trying hard not to shake the contents in the box. Outside, he hurried to his meeting place.

Thibeau smiled a relieved greeting as Hutch sidled up to the wagon, but frowned when he saw what was under Hutch's arm. "Fils de pute! That's Hull's strongbox. You stole his money?"

"It's not stealing when it belongs to me. Hull doesn't deserve to keep a year's worth of tuition for less than a three week stay. Here, feel how light the box weighs." When Thibeau crossed his arms in front of his chest, Hutch shook the box and heard muffled thumps. "It's not because there's paper money inside. You know he'd never trust paper. The bastard probably sews every spare dime into his mattress." He really only wanted to take what was his, and hoped no additional amounts were in the container. To ease his guilt he said, "I'll split it with you."

Thibeau raised his hands in the air, signaling amused annoyance, and pointed to the horses. "I'm in enough trouble. If Hull catches us, you'll go to jail, but I'll be hung for a horse thief. Vite! Get in the wagon before we have to plead our case to a judge."

Hutch clambered in, and with a smart snap of the reins, Thibeau urged the horses forward. When they reached the fork in the road, they turned toward New Orleans.

* * *

When they were out of sight of the house, Thibeau visibly relaxed and Hutch let down his guard.

"What are you going to do with the horses? Sell them?"

"As soon as I reach Houma I'll ask my brother-in-law to return them. I'll lay low for a while, and then look for a job in New Orleans. What are your plans, Hutch, now that you are rich?"

"Depends how rich." Hutch shook the box again. "Unless there are stacks of hundred dollar bills, I doubt there's enough money to buy a month's worth of fancy steak dinners."

Thibeau let out a sigh and halted the wagon. "You're dying to know, aren't you?"

"Yup."

"Find a rock while I water that fine oak over there."

A plentiful selection of rocks edged the road. Hutch found a hefty one that fit comfortably in his hand and repeatedly took aim at the lock. When the lid did not budge, he lost patience and bashed the top, the sides, and the bottom. Nothing. Not a jiggle. In disgust, he kicked the box and watched it do a somersault, then land on its side. The lid flapped open with a squeak, and two leather sacks and a small book fell out of it. One bag contained gold coins, the other silver. He snatched the slim volume and thumbed the pages. It was a ledger, an accounting of money put in and taken out of the box. He checked the money in the bags against the last entry. They matched. "Son of a bitch." Hutch muttered with bitter disappointment. He left the box behind and returned with his booty.

"You don't look as happy as you left, mon ami, not enough for steaks?"

"Fifty dollars—Hull's housekeeping budget, the piker. He's tighter than a mosquito's ass."

"I'm sorry, Hutch." Thibeau smiled mischievously. "At least fifty dollars will only buy a ten year jail sentence. You'll still be a young man when you get out."

"You enjoy tormenting me?"

"Oui."

"You worked for Hull too long." Hutch dug into one of the sacks. "Here." He handed Thibeau two gold coins.

"Ten dollars. What is this for?"

"Your weekly wage. I saw it in the book. Tomorrow is payday."

Thibeau smiled sheepishly and pocketed the money. "That's very generous of you. Merci."

Hutch shrugged. "It's only money—Wilcox's."

* * *

They arrived in New Orleans as a virgin sky blushed a rosy hue. Despite the bumpy ride, Hutch had fallen asleep against Thibeau's arm and woke to the clacking of iron hooves against paved streets. After a few weeks of country birdcalls and rustling leaves, he'd forgotten about the noise. He breathed in the welcoming odors of the open-air market, and observed the housewives and servants negotiating with merchants over the price of wares. His short absence made everything feel right and wrong. He was in the city where he was born, but he felt a pang of loneliness. There was no one to greet him.

"Well?"

Thibeau's question pried him from his melancholy thoughts. "Well, what?"

"Should I stop and let you off, or do you want to continue to Houma?"

His gloom dissipated like a marshland mist at noon, but Hutch asked cautiously, "What would I do in Houma?"

"Go to school. It's not fancy like the Academy. It's a one-room schoolhouse run by a bony spinster. You can stay at my place. Help Rachelle with our ki—"

A deafening blast of a steamboat horn smothered the end of the sentence. Hutch mulled over the well-intentioned offer. He enjoyed Thibeau's company, but snatching children from the jaws of alligators and playing social director to Rachelle's liaisons held little temptation.

A steamboat whistle filled the air, and another thought occurred to him. He urged, "Head for the dock, Thibeau."

"Why?" Thibeau asked, but he already had the horses moving in that direction. They turned a corner and a line of majestic steamboats came into view; black clouds of smoke rolled out of their stacks.

Hutch scanned the row and pointed. "Look! The_ Andrew Jackson!_"

"A beautiful boat, but so are all the others. What's so exciting about that—?"

"Don't you know about the big race? The _Andy_ is leaving this afternoon to meet up with the _Belle of Natchez_ at Memphis. The boats will race each other to St. Louis. The captains boasted for weeks how much faster and superior their vessels are to each other. They're hankering to break the _Robert E. Lee's_ speed record as well. I wanted to place a bet on the _Andy_."

"You're going to spend all your remaining money on a bet?" Thibeau looked incredulous.

"Of course not. I want to see the race first-hand. Buy passage on the _Andrew Jackson_. This is the chance of a lifetime."

"Is that so?" Thibeau blinked as if he was trying to clear his vision and comprehend the worthiness of the expenditure. "I never saw you so excited. Is this really what you want to do?"

"Absolutely." Hutch answered. He had no family and no job. Even the rocky beginnings of friendship with Wilcox faded away when he left. He was fond of Thibeau, but Thibeau had a family. Hutch wanted roots too, but his gut instinct told him he would not find what he wanted tucked away in the Bayeau. He needed to take a chance, and see what lay beyond New Orleans and Louisiana.

"I reckon I forgot what it's like to be young." Thibeau answered complacently. He halted the horses, and climbed down from the buckboard. Pulled out Hutch's valise from the back of the wagon. "So this is goodbye."

"It's a trip up north and back. I'm returning to New Orleans."

"My Cajun bones tell me not in this lifetime, but we can write. You can send letters to Houma marked general delivery. Everyone knows me." Thibeau geniality faded, and he grew serious. "Back at Hull, I know you used me to get what you needed—food, someone to talk to, escape. Other than the icehouse, I've seen Hull cane students before. You put on a show for me to gain my sympathy, no? Exaggerated how much Hull actually hurt you?"

Hutch hung his head at the gentle accusation. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"Answer my next question honestly. Are we friends?"

Hutch dared to look into Thibeau's eyes. "You are a friend. How can I prove it to you? Would you believe me if I went with you to Houma?"

"That's not necessary, mon ami."

Thibeau beamed his approval and before Hutch realized what happened, he felt strong arms wrap around him and heavy thumps pound his back. Such enthusiasm was foreign to him. He reluctantly reciprocated with feeble pats against Thibeau's.

When Thibeau finished his assault, he backed away and advised, "In case Hull comes looking for you, you should make yourself scarce until the boat sails."

"I will. You should too, make yourself scarce, I mean."

"Oui." Thibeau climbed back onto the wagon.

He was ready to cluck at the horses when Hutch thought of something. "Wait!" He pulled out the ledger and checked all his pockets for a pencil. Ripping out a back page, he printed a message and signed his name:

_Colonel Hull_

_IOU $50.00_

_Gregory Vaughn Hutchinson_

And handed it to Thibeau.

"What is this?" Thibeau looked mystified.

"In case you ever come face to face with Hull you can give him my IOU. He knows my handwriting. If he is the officer and gentleman he claims to be, that paper should clear you of stealing any money."

"We are friends, Hutch. You don't have to do this."

"Yes I do. Friends protect friends, and besides, it's the right thing to do, oui?"

"Oui." Thibeau smiled with his mouth and eyes. He waved as the horses moved forward. "Au revoir, Hutch."

"Au revoir, Thibeau."

* * *

Eagerly anticipating the race, Hutch headed straight to the _Andrew Jackson_. Teams of men were loading palettes of wood and cotton bales onto the cargo deck. The coolest time of the day, and sweat already gleamed off their bronze backs.

Hutch approached a man at the end of the gangplank who shouted orders to the crew and ticked off items on a pad of paper. By the way he was dressed, a white shirt with a belt holding up his jeans, Hutch reckoned the man was a foreman. "Where do I buy a ticket?"

The man stopped writing and slid the pencil behind his ear. "You joshing me?"

"No. I have the money. How much?"

"Don't you know about the race? Passage been booked full for a month."

"Every stateroom? What about deck passengers?" Hutch pursued.

"Not taking any this trip. 'Sides a handful of passengers, Captain Vogle's running a light crew and accepting contracted cargo only."

"Where is this Vogle. I want to speak to him." Hutch demanded.

"The Captain is busy. Won't be down for an hour or two. Come back then if you want, but won't do you no good." The foreman reached for his pencil and began writing on his pad, effectively ending the conversation.

"I'll be back," Hutch said, insisting on the last word. He sought out a coffee house with a view of the dock, and chose a table next to the window where he could view his prey. He ordered a cup of coffee, two plates of beignets, and noted every man who went on board or off the boat. He ate the pastry and sipped from his cup as he planned his attack, his eyes always scanning the decks.

Over three hours passed before Hutch saw an imposing figure in an officer's uniform stride down the stairs and engage the foreman in conversation. Even from far away the man's posture shouted authority. Hutch scraped his chair away from the table and bolted out of the shop.

As he drew closer he studied his opponent. The riverboat captain was the largest man he had ever laid eyes upon— portly and a half head taller than himself. Exposure to sun and wind had stained his skin dark. Up close, he detected a richer tone that hinted at a trace of African ancestry.

Chin up and shoulders back, Hutch stretched to his full height and addressed the captain with the respect that Hull wanted, but never came close to receiving. "Captain Vogle, sir, I desire the honor of witnessing your victory over the _Belle of Natchez_ from the deck of your mighty steamboat, and am prepared to pay for the privilege." When he finished he almost cracked a smile. Wilcox would have been astounded that he could manage such courtly speech. Anyone who knew him would.

Unfortunately, the only person unimpressed by the speech was the captain. He slowly pivoted and looked down from his great height. "You were told, young man, no more passengers."

Hutch blithely shed his new persona and fell back on proven methodology. "Why?"

"Why? Because my priorities are the race. The _Belle's_ captain and I agreed upon terms and weight restrictions. Each of us is limited to twenty-four passengers. I handpicked only patrons who I trust to stick to the main cabin, and can keep cool heads. The crew doesn't have time to shepherd a pup around the decks. I don't need trouble."

"I'm not trouble. I can follow rules and stay with the others."

A thick stubby finger pointed to his mouth. "You look like trouble."

Hutch reflexively ran his finger over his bruised bottom lip. It was still puffy and not helping his case. He decided to deflect. "If it's about slowing down the boat, I'm lighter than a cotton bale and willing to pay full passage. Surely cargo slipping off the deck isn't unheard of?"

Greed sparkled in the captain's eyes, and Hutch's hopes rose as he watched the man raise his head and squint at the sky as if calculating.

His foreman offered advice, "You were concerned about Turner not sticking the course, sir."

The information seemed to help Vogle make his decision. His voice was low when he spoke, "Well… twenty dollars is the going rate, but this cruise comes at a premium… thirty dollars, take it or leave it."

"I'll take it!" Before the captain had a chance to change his mind or come up with added surcharges, Hutch handed over six gold coins. He picked up his satchel eager to stake his territory. "Now show me to my stateroom."

"Not so fast. We're not allowing passengers aboard until noon. Hand over your belongings to Douglass here, and when you return you'll find your case at the top of the grand staircase on the passenger deck. Any sleeping accommodation with a key in the lock is available."

Hutch was uncomfortable with the arrangement. "I want a receipt for my valise and a ticket."

Vogle huffed and motioned to Douglass to give him his pad. He slashed strokes upon a sheet, tore it off, and handed it to Hutch. "Right, you're no trouble at all. Mark my words, if I hear you caused one ounce of mischief on my boat, you'll live to regret it."

* * *

With time on his hands, Hutch strolled through the market stalls, nodding to a few of the vendors he knew. He stopped when he reached a flower seller. He never had the money or inclination to see what was offered, but this time he carefully eyed the selection and beckoned the merchant over. "Give me a dozen pink and white carnations."

Flowers in hand, he walked through the streets and looked at the buildings and shops, taking everything in with fresh eyes. His world had expanded since meeting Wilcox, and he wasn't sure he entirely liked it.

Sunshine and heat commanded the day. Dogs slept collapsed on their sides under trees and porches, not bothering to bark or chase after him. The trip to his mother's cemetery was completely uneventful. The quiet matched his somber mood as he kneeled and picked weeds from her grave. When he was satisfied, he placed the flowers next to her headstone.

He pulled a chain from under his shirt and fingered a tiny, worn ring, most of the gold finish rubbed off. When she was upset and her forehead wrinkled, she would root around in her jewelry box for it. Slip it on her finger, and get a dreamy expression on her face. When the creases above the bridge of her nose disappeared, he would ask her it it was special and why, but she refused to say. The ring and the chain were all he had left of her.

"I think of you everyday, Mom." Hutch was startled to realize he said the words out loud, and looked over his shoulder to see if anyone heard him. No one was around, so he continued, "I'm going to St. Louis, but I'll be back."

He lost track of the time as he crouched alongside her grave, thinking about her. With a heavy expulsion of breath, he stood up and left.

* * *

By the time he returned to the docks, he saw a man with suitcase boarding the _Andrew_. He hurried over and before he had a chance to wave his slip of paper, the man yanked his head in the direction of the deck. "I heard about you. Get aboard. Captain Vogle told me to remind you, you're restricted to the main cabin with the rest of the passengers. Meals will be served there. If he hears about you roaming in any other areas, he'll personally introduce you to the Mississippi."

Hutch nodded contritely and continued up the gangplank. He couldn't wait for his feet to touch the deck. Feel what it was like not to have earth under his feet.

He hurried to the passenger deck, found his valise, and stowed his things into the first available sleeping compartment. Without a flurry of guilt, he prepared to break the Captain's orders. The bed looked inviting, but now would be the best time to inspect the riverboat from stem to stern, while everyone was diverted and preparing for the launch.

He checked his alternate prison, the main cabin. He was amazed at its immense size and magnificence. To be exiled here would be any deposed king's dream. Stained glass windows dotted the upper walls. He gauged the height of the ceiling at twenty feet. Lacy white bric-a-brac dripped from the beams like stalactites, interrupted by pendulous glistening chandeliers. The room was a gigantic cavern, but a comfortable one. Endless chairs and tables clung to the sides of the room and a third row ran down the center. Colorful carpeting swirled under his feet. He was tempted to walk its length, but there would be time later. He went out to the covered promenade and climbed up and down stairs, opening doors and snooping into elegant offices and humble storage rooms.

He started to climb the stairway that led to the pilot house, but saw the navy serge of a uniform and retreated.

If he could not go up, he would go down. He headed for the boiler deck and engine room. He was in luck, no one was guarding the entry to the boilers, but he flinched as he drew near. No guard was needed. The heat was an invisible barrier. The scrape and clank of metal emanating from within reminded him of the gladiators he read about in Hull's coveted copy of _Ben Hur_. He had to see what was going on in the murky interior.

A storm-tossed sea of shovels and arms and rippling muscles met his gaze. An army of men fed seven fire-eating dragons. Then Hutch had an epiphany. The mythical creatures mutated into mechanical versions of the human anatomy. Boilers for marrow, steam for blood, the engine for a heart, the paddlewheels for limbs. It all made perfect sense.

Hypnotized by the sight, he stared until a shout rang out from a cluster of men at the far end of the room, working on a replacement for the eighth boiler. One team heaved the old one from its iron cradle while the second crew grunted and shoved another into place. They rocked the barrel until it settled securely. When the leader was satisfied with the placement, the team converged, strapping and bolting it into place.

"HEY, YOU! WHAT ARE YOU DOIN'?" yelled an angry voice from below.

Hutch realized a man had separated from the crowd and was headed toward him. He backed away and raced up the steps to the passenger deck. Fearing a misstep from his twisted foot, he leveraged much of his weight to his arms and hauled himself up by grasping the rails on both sides of him. Panting heavily more from fear than exertion, he dodged into a hallway without wasting time to look back, and hid in a storage closet. He closed the door just as heavy footsteps stomped down the corridor. He covered his nose and mouth with his hand to prevent any sound from escaping. After at least ten minutes had passed he deemed it safe to leave the closet and return to his stateroom.

Exhaustion overtook him as he sat motionless on the bed. The events of the last twenty-four hours swept over him like a hurricane and drained him of all his energy. His legs were stiff and immovable stone pillars. He collapsed backward onto the middle of the mattress. He promised himself he only needed to close his eyes for a few seconds… just a few seconds… .

* * *

_wooo__OOO__!_

Hutch shot up in the bed, his hand over his racing heart.

**_woo__O__OOO!__!__!_**

He sank back down. His fog-enshrouded mind registered the familiar sound as a steamboat preparing to sail. A steamboat…

_Damn!_ His steamboat! He must have slept into the late afternoon. He scrambled out of bed, went to the window, and craned his neck. A crowd was gathered at the dock. Men, women, and children waved flags and cheered the _Andy_. And there was a brass band… He flew out of the room for a better look.

At the railing, he scanned the swarm of faces. Half the city was there to see them off. He noticed hands waving. He wondered to whom. His deck was empty except for a crewman repairing a piece of trim. The bulk of the officers and crew stood at attention on the cargo deck, stoically accepting the cheers of the crowd.

He leaned over the rail to catch what the band was playing, but the engines drowned out much of the tune. He eventually identified it as, "Dixie." Another hoot from the whistle, and the churning of the paddlewheels vanquished the music. The boat glided from the dock. With theatrical panache the boat sprinted forward. The journey had begun. A sense of freedom and exhilaration permeated him when he realized the boat had passed Hull Academy and was headed for Baton Rouge. His curiosity once again ignited by the excitement, Hutch decided to go in search of his fellow passengers. Find out who Vogle had handpicked for the journey.

He went to the main cabin to see if any of them had congregated there as ordered. A smoky cloud floated over a group of well-dressed men seated at tables at the other end of the salon. As he neared he heard the clack of chips. Four tables. Six men at a table. Twenty-four men gripping fanned cards in their hands. Almost all puffing cigars and wearing hats with the brims tipped down to hide their eyes and mask their face. Nobody talked and nobody looked up. Not until he came within six feet, and then hats bobbed up like sun-drunk cobras checking to see who breached their territory. He respectfully backed off and the crowns tilted down.

He could hardly contain his delight. He was in the presence of the princes of the river, Mississippi riverboat gamblers.

Fishermen made more noise. Chips and cards slid over the felt-topped tables. Hutch was hard pressed to detect any human movement. Not a tap. Not a twitch.

Only one player, a person of color, checked his pocket watch before raising or folding. Hutch guessed the maneuver was a deliberate ploy to distract or deflect

Unable to discover any tells, Hutch studied the rise and fall of the gamblers' chests. More interesting than he would expect, since most of the men wore dazzling vests in every color of the rainbow. Sometimes every imaginable hue crisscrossed on one. His favorite was a red satin vest with an embroidered rampant lion in gold. The man wearing it breathed heavily without the aid of a lit cigar. Hutch guessed his poker hand contained at least four of a kind, or he was a very bad bluffer.

The ugliest vest of the bunch had dull diagonal gray and olive stripes that created a chevron pattern. The colors were better suited for the desert, preferably buried under a rock. However, the owner probably gave much thought to his choice. The garment hung loose, as did his shirt. Hutch could not determine the wax and wane of the lungs. The gambler was an unreadable entity.

Ugly sat at the same table as the lion. He doubled every raise the lion made until the other gamblers folded. Two more rounds, and Hutch thought the lion's heart would jump out of his chest. Apparently, so did ugly who betrayed nothing but calm and went all in. The gold beastie surrendered. He spat his cards upon the baize battlefield: four kings. Ugly raked up his winnings without displaying his hand. The drama over, both sat back in their chairs as if nothing had happened and waited for a new set of cards.

Hutch watched a few more hands. When his stomach grumbled, he decided to find a waiter. He barely had passed the tables when Hutch halted at the sight of a crab-shaped piano squatting against the wall, a square grand. His fingers itched to try it. Expecting any second for someone to stop him, he walked casually over to the instrument and sat down. Testing a series of harmonious chords, he looked over his shoulder. No one glared back. He chose the soulful ballad, The _Streets of Laredo_, without giving any thought to the lyrics.

While repeating the melody in the second verse, a shadow graced the white keys followed by a polite cough. From the corner of his eye, he recognized the noxious vest of the cunning gambler.

"Must you play that depressing—You!"

Hutch's fingers froze on the ivories as he recognized the voice. It was nothing like he expected the shrewd gambler to sound like. He turned to glare at the man towering over him, who looked as stunned as he felt. "You!" he accused back.

"What the hell are you doing here?" their two voices bellowed in unison.

It was the last person Hutch had expected to see. Wilcox.

.

TBC

.

.

_All comments welcome. _

* * *

**Reference:**

Twain, Mark, Life on the Mississippi. New York: Dover, 2000.

_Streets of Laredo_, lyrics and history on Wiki. Sorry, don't know how to post the link.


	10. Admonitions and Admissions

_**[H]ouse Characters In Part Nine (Chapter 10)  
**_

_Gregory House = Gregory V. "Hutch" Hutchinson, age 15  
_

James Wilson = James Wilcox

Eric Foreman = Eli Forrest

Tucker = Turner

Michael Tritter = Martin Tressiter

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"Unless this is a train, you shouldn't be here, Wilcox." Hutch was on his feet and like a sapling in the wind, bent toward Wilcox, almost touching noses. He drew back, coiled his hand into a fist, and swung a punch aimed for Wilcox's mouth, but his knuckles connected with air as Wilcox ducked and grabbed his wrist.

"And you should be in school. We had an agreement, you little—"

A bored voice called out from one of the tables, "Wilcox, we ain't interested in the kid's bad temper or his second-rate pugilistic skills.. Throw him in the river, and get back to your seat."

A sliver of fear chilled Hutch's gut. He never learned how to swim. Was this how arguments were settled on riverboats? He opened his mouth to shout down the player when Wilcox's hand clamped over it. Wilcox's other hand pulled on his ear.

"Not a single word until we get outside," Wilcox said through clenched teeth. Hutch tried to squirm away from the humiliating grip as they marched past the tables. He sensed Wilcox was weakening and he could break free by applying the right amount of leverage. Hutch had the advantage of size, and up close he could tell he was heavier. Wilcox's suit hung loosely off his hips and shoulders. Two men also noticed Wilcox struggling. They pushed back their chairs and offered to help.

Wilcox declined their assistance and shot a warning glare at Hutch that could melt a polar cap. He removed his hands, but it was only to get a steadier hold on Hutch's shoulder and the back of his trousers. "Behave, unless you want those men to take matters into their own hands."

Hutch took the warning as reassurance that there would be no swimming lessons and stopped straining to break free.

Barely slowing as he reached his table, Wilcox spoke to the man who occupied the chair next to his. "Forrest, if I'm not back in fifteen minutes, bring my chips to my cabin."

When they made their way to the door, a man shouted, "Jim, wait up!" and rushed toward them with an awkward gait. He wore a wide smile, but it looked no more genuine than a storefront facade.

"Congratulations on your big win. You scared Stinky shitless."

"He had a right to be. Can this wait, Turner?" The polite weariness in Wilcox's voice instantly caught Hutch's attention. His curiosity overtook his anger. He waited eagerly to hear what this Turner wanted.

"Lady Luck is sitting at your table this evening, not mine. Johnson insists I pay back what I owe him or he refuses to deal me any cards. Could you spare a few dollars?"

"How much?"

"A hundred."

"A hundred?" Wilcox's shaggy eyebrows shot up. "I'm holding two markers from our last trip. Have you considered sitting this session out?"

Turner kneaded the side of his thigh. "What's money compared to what you owe me, Jim? Because of you, I've had to live with this leg since Sharpsburg."

Hutch felt Wilcox's grasp loosen. A terse whisper in his ear instructed him to wait.

With a smirk twisting his lips, Turner's eyes tracked Wilcox's every step back to the poker table. Hutch pieced the unsaid words together and blurted, "You should be thanking Wilcox you're alive, not showering him with guilt."

"I don't know what you're talking about. He's my friend," Turner said, his smile sliding back in place.

Wilcox returned and plunked a stack of chips in Turner's open hand. Turner counted it and said, "Thanks, Jim." He casually saluted, and limped back to his table.

"Why do you let that guy use you like you're his personal banker?" Hutch asked.

"You wouldn't understand." Wilcox answered, and shoved Hutch through the door to the promenade. He did not let go until they were out of earshot from the main salon. Wilcox began coughing and waved Hutch toward a chair as he pulled out his handkerchief and walked to the railing. The engines' hum covered the hacking, but Hutch could see Wilcox's shoulders jerk from the effort. When the attack subsided, Hutch wasted no time gaining the upper hand, and resumed his assault.

"How long have you known Turner? Was it before you cut off his leg?"

"What?" Wilcox spun around.

"Hull said you were a surgeon in the army."

Wilcox's brown eyes went black and hollow as if he were seeing ghosts. A full minute went by before he returned to the land of the living. "What I did on the battlefield isn't relevant; however, how you got here is. We made a deal. I'd come back for you in six months." He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for an answer.

Wilcox would have to wait longer. "You said you'd come for me after your rest cure. Last time I checked a map, the Mississippi River wasn't in the middle of the Rockies. You broke your promise, Wilcox."

"I had unfinished business to attend to before leaving. Happens I'm taking the train from St. Louis. But what about your promise? Three weeks isn't six months!"

Hutch sprung from the chair. "I'd be dead if I stayed one more week!"

Wilcox allowed a rueful smile. "Back at the school, I realized Hull didn't take a shine to you, but he does have a good reputation. I asked around and no one complained about missing or dead children, but he's known to be a strict disciplinarian." Wilcox pointed at Hutch's mouth. "Was that Hull's doing?"

Hutch had forgotten about the bruise and the faded streaks on his back. He leaned defensively against the wall. "Had a run-in with my schoolmates. It was nothing important, but Hull took their side." Recalling the chill of the icehouse, his body involuntarily shivered.

Wilcox's gaze never left him, and he must have spotted Hutch's reaction because his face lost its color. "Something happened. He didn't… did he touch you?"

"No, but he's a bastard, and I'm not going back." Having caught Wilcox's concerned tone, Hutch attempted again to get answers. "And what about you? That ticket you showed me on the River Road wasn't for the train. It was a steamboat ticket. You're a riverboat gambler."

Wilcox swiveled away and looked at the river. "I booked passage for the race months ago, along with some high stake games. What was I supposed to do with you for three weeks? Did it ever occur to you that I might not be proud of my profession?"

Why not? You're good!"

"Don't get any romantic notions about gambling. Whether I sleep in a first-class hotel or a boarding house that smells of fish depends upon the flip of a card." Wilcox stood at the rail for a few more moments before turning around. "And for the last time, answer my questions or I'll get a crewman to toss you overboard. Where'd you get the fare?"

"I told Hull you were in Atlanta. That you were sick and sent for me. I asked him for a loan to get back 'home.'" Hutch tried to act natural as he lied.

Wilcox pinched his nose. When he removed his fingers he asked calmly "You're not going to tell me the truth, are you?"

"No."

"If you told me the truth, how likely would it be that I'd get angry?"

"What's the likelihood of Turner tapping you for another loan?

Wilcox pushed his hat off his forehead and huffed in disgust. "I'd have a better chance getting straight answers from a politician than you. Truce?"

Hutch almost sighed with relief. "Truce." He stiffened when Wilcox clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"Do you still eat like a starving mule?"

"I've been told my eating habits resemble those of a circus elephant. Why?"

"Before you can sit at my table, you must promise not to steal my food. The meal service is meager due to the minimal crew so it's first come first served. Dinner should be ready by now. How about we go in?"

Hutch walked with Wilcox back to the main salon. The poker tables were abandoned. All the men had congregated at the opposite end of the cabin. A series of tables draped with spotless linen stretched across its width. It supported enough gleaming silver to close down the Comstock Lode. As they drew near, Hutch marveled that the tables did not sag from the weight of the numerous platters, bowls, and domed dishes heaped to overflowing. "Can I eat everything?"

Wilcox looked pleased as one of the staff handed Hutch a plate. "I'm sure you can, but leave some for the rest of us."

**

* * *

**

By the time Hutch had coaxed slices of ham and roast beef into logs to cradle shrimp in the center of his plate while serving as barricades for chunks of fruit, various salads, and a mashed potato mountain with a gravy-filled crater off to the side, Wilcox was sitting at a table and Forrest had joined him. Fortunately, Turner was at a different table, ingratiating himself with a gambler wearing a glittering pinkie ring and matching stickpin.

He risked ruining his masterpiece when a fresh platter of fried chicken was brought out from the kitchen and wedged between a tureen of soup and tangle of crab legs. A breast and thigh fit on the twin beams of meat perfectly. Satisfied, he staked out the place setting on Wilcox's left, but was disgruntled when Wilcox, engrossed in a conversation with Forrest, ignored him. He stretched his arm across the table to reach for the breadbasket and deliberately upset Wilcox's goblet, splattering ice water into Wilcox's lap. He practiced looking innocent as Wilcox shot up from his chair, frantically wiping his trousers.

"Thanks for joining us, Greg, and for the splashy entrance." Wilcox said when he returned to his seat, and made quick introductions. "You two met earlier. Eli, this is Greg Hutchinson."

Before Hutch could swallow his roll and say anything, the two had resumed chatting. He listened as they compared riverboats, saloons, hotels, and gamblers, but soon grew bored.

He checked out Wilcox's plate for any food he might have missed at the buffet and was disappointed by the selection. A naked slice of turkey with a stripe of meat cut from it, and a shallow mound of corn. Both had grown cold from benign neglect. Wilcox's fork stayed empty most of the time, hovering over the plate. The sight disturbed Hutch. He plucked a thick slice of bread from the basket, smashed curls of butter into the spongy surface and dropped it on Wilcox's bread plate.

While listening intently to Forrest, Wilcox glanced at the gift, tossed a frown in his direction, and pushed the plate away.

Hutch studied the object of Wilcox's attention, Forrest, the only free man of color among the gamblers. He looked younger than Wilcox by four or five years. The shape of his brown eyes reminded Hutch of an Egyptian pharaoh. His demeanor and personality could have been carved from the walls of a pyramid, solid and unyielding. About to give up on finding anything entertaining about the serious man across the table, Hutch noticed Forrest's accent.

"Steamboats are a thing of the past. The money is out West, Wilcox. Towns littered along the railroad teeming with yokels and cowboys. Get tired of one town, move onto the next," Forrest explained.

Hutch broke into the conversation. "You sound like a Yankee. Where do you come from?"

Wilcox rolled his eyes, apparently annoyed at Hutch's lack of conversational tact.

"Like you deduced. Up North," Forrest said.

"I mean what state?"

Forrest leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingertips together. " I'm from New York, not that it's any of your business. Anything else you _must_ know?"

Hutch was about to ask if he'd been in the War and killed Southerners when a man in uniform loomed over the table.

"Wilcox, Forrest, mind if I join you?"

"Have a seat, Tressiter." Wilcox made another round of introductions, more formal this time. "Greg, this is Mr. Martin Tressiter, pilot of the Andrew Jackson. Tressiter, have you met my uh, cousin, Gregory—"

"—Hutchinson." Hutch completed the sentence and shook hands. "But call me Hutch." From the corner of his eye he spotted Wilcox do a double take.

Tressiter was an impressive man with or without a uniform. He was tall with white-blond hair and unusually light-colored eyes that were like blue tinted mirrors.

"You're the cocky kid I keep hearing about. Heard tell you made quite an impression on the Captain and the passengers." The icy eyes never blinked. "The Captain doesn't like you. Called you an arrogant shit."

Wilcox tried to explain, "The boy's a little untamed, rough around the edges, but—"

"Don't apologize," Tressiter cut in. "Anyone the Captain dislikes is a friend of mine."

Wilcox sat in stunned silence as Forrest smothered a laugh behind his hand.

"The Captain and I don't get along, but he needs me to steer the ship, and he's willing to pay my price. But there's not a day goes by when we're not at each other's throats arguing about the Andy, especially about the race."

"But there are rules," Forrest said.

"And Vogle believes rules are meant to be broken. I'm sure Captain Joseph will cut a few corners, but Vogle will go to extremes, mark my words."

"What will Vogle do?" asked Hutch.

"What won't he do is the better question." Tressiter motioned for the bread, obviously stalling while he made a decision whether to say anything more. Hutch passed the basket.

"Can I trust the three of you?"

Hutch nodded his head along with Forrest and Wilcox. Everyone leaned forward.

"Vogle and Joseph agreed not to strip down the boats to save weight, but after the meeting Vogle ordered the crew to remove anything that could escape notice. As soon as we reach Natchez the men will scrape the gold off the paddle-boxes. Same with any interior trim." He made a fist and yanked at the air to demonstrate. "He has a buyer for the piano waiting in Vicksburg. The man is power hungry and devious. I know he's hiding more from me, but I don't know what."

"What more does the man want? He owns the Andy." Wilcox puzzled out loud.

Hutch pictured Vogle the first time he saw him. Strutting down the steps of his boat like a visiting monarch. "One boat's not enough. He's wants a fleet."

Tressiter nodded approvingly. "Did I say Vogle disliked you? That's an understatement. He must loathe you. You see right through him."

The conversation shifted to duller topics as gamblers strolled over to pay their respects to the pilot. Hutch stole away to fill his plate with pastries and fruit, but when he returned, Forrest sat alone at the table. "Where'd they go?"

Forrest shrugged his shoulders in answer, and shoved away from the table. "I don't know, but unless they went for a moonlight swim, they're still on the boat. I'm going back to play poker. Want to join me?"

"No." Ten dollars would be gone before he warmed his chair. Hutch pocketed a cookie and orange from his plate and went in search of Wilcox, walking out to the promenade. A man stood at the railing puffing on a pungent smelling cigar. With the sunset sinking into purple clouds, he could make out the orange tip against the darkening sky. He recognized the fellow by his flashy red vest, Stinky.

"Did you see Wilcox?"

"I heard him talking with Tressiter."

"Do you know where they went?

"Let me think." Stinky sucked on his cigar. He pulled a leather case out of his pocket, and offered a cigar to Hutch, handing him a match. Hutch took both and murmured his thanks, slipping them into an empty pocket to smoke later. He envied Stinky and all the riverboat gamblers. Drifting up and down the river, doing whatever they pleased. Wilcox would never convince him otherwise.

Hutch looked out at the peaceful view of the sky and the rippling river while waiting for Stinky's answer. Tonight's moon was missing a slice, but there was ample light illuminating the water and the tree-lined banks. Andy's whistle blew as the boat reached a bend. Another steamboat rolled into sight ahead of them, and hooted acknowledgement.

Stinky stirred to life at the sound. He indicated the stairway behind him with his stogie. "Tressiter invited Wilcox up to the Texas deck."

Hutch tipped his hat and climbed the stairs. Halfway up, he heard Tressiter say his name and Wilcox's unmistakable cough. He continued but stepped carefully in order not to give himself away. At the top he ducked behind a wall and sneaked a peek at what they were doing. They stood companionably close, leaning against the railing, smoking cigars, and drinking whiskey. Tressiter talked while he kept a watchful eye on the steamboat ahead as the Andy steadily overtook it.

"Come on Wilcox, who's the kid?"

"I told you he's my cousin."

"You don't act like cousins. Cousins either get along or avoid each other. Everyone thinks the two of you argue like father and son. Besides, you told me when we were stranded in that Podunk town two years ago that all your relatives died or scattered after the War. Whoever this boy is, you just met him."

"I don't remember saying anything about my family."

"You were drunk. You're more fun when you're drunk."

"Burning steamboats bring out the best in me."

"We had one hell of an evening, breaking and jumping out of windows." Tressiter clasped his arm around Wilcox's upper back and shook him in a genial manner. "And we lived to tell about it, like old war buddies."

Tressiter prodded, "He's your son, isn't he? You're not ashamed to admit the truth because he's lame, are you?"

Hutch controlled his temper and stayed where he was. He saw Wilcox pull away from Tressiter.

"Of course not." Wilcox rubbed the back of his neck and spoke barely above a whisper, "You promise not to say a word?"

"Consider me your father confessor."

Hutch held his breath, cupped his ear, and leaned forward as much as he dared.

"He's my—" The last word vaporized under the twin shotgun blasts of the boat's horn and whistle. Andy was about to pull alongside the other steamboat.

Wilcox covered his mouth. "I shouldn't have told you, but you didn't hear me over the— "

"Don't underestimate the skills of pilots, Wilcox." Tressiter answered with a knowing smile. "I can read lips."

.

TBC

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**_All comments welcome. _**

* * *

**Bibliography:**

Twain, Mark, Life on the Mississippi. New York: Dover, 2000.


	11. The Bend in the River

**_[H]ouse Characters In Part Ten (Chapter 11)_  
**

_Gregory House = Gregory V. "Hutch" Hutchinson, age 15_

_James Wilson = James Wilcox_

_Michael Tritter = Martin Tressiter_

_Eric Foreman = Eli Forrest_

_Tucker = Turner_

_Mark Warner = Matthew Warrick_

_._

As Hutch prepared to confront Wilcox, another symphony of salutations trumpeted from the boats. Hutch considered his plan of action. It would do no good to mouth words like an idiot if no one could hear him. Besides, he was aware that his aggressive behavior toward Wilcox had not garnered him any friends. The only ghost of an ally was Tressiter, and he preferred not to snap that tenuous thread.

Battles did not completely win the War for the Yankees. Pinkerton Spies had assisted the North; he needed to infiltrate Wilcox and Tressiter's clannish get-together and listen for a slip of the tongue. Hutch stole down the steps while the boats' boastful greetings continued. Once safely on the deck below, he lit his small cigar and fanned the smoke up the stairwell to announce his entrance. He followed the translucent clouds up the steps, and when he reached the top, Wilcox and Tressiter had stopped talking and were staring at him.

Hutch drew the acrid smoke into his lungs, letting it out slowly, trying not to cough, and joined them at the rail. "Evening Wilcox, Tressiter. Fine night to view the river."

Wilcox stared as if reading a card player. "Were you listening to our conversation?"

"Why are you asking?" Hutch countered in a pleasant tone. Wilcox merely narrowed his eyes. Tressiter sipped from his glass. "Were you talking about women? Don't stop on my account."

The line of Tressiter's shoulders noticeably relaxed but Wilcox's eyes never left his face.

"What do you think you're doing?" Wilcox asked.

Hutch ignored the question and sucked on the cigar. This time the smoke caught in his throat, and a series of staccato coughs convulsed his chest. As he tried to master his breathing, he felt the cigar rip from his hand.

"You should know better than to smoke that. The stench pollutes the air." Wilcox pinched the cigar with his fingertips, inspecting both ends and looking at it with disgust. "A cheap cheroot."

"Hey! Stinky gave me that cigar. Smoke your own." Hutch swiped at it just as Wilcox flicked it into the water.

"Of course it's his. Why do you think we call him Stinky?"

Wilcox turned to Tressiter, asking about a "Cuban." Tressiter produced a large cylindrical object from his jacket and handed it over.

"Now this is a cigar." Wilcox said. The tightly wrapped leaves were as thick as a tree branch. Wilcox struck the head of a match with his thumb. "Bite off the end and I'll help you light it."

"I know what I'm doing," Hutch answered, but most of his experience was limited to breathing in the heavy aroma of tobacco in Miss Adelaide's salon. He nipped off the cap leaf as he had seen others do, and leaned into the flame. Wilcox immediately dropped the match under the cigar, and with his other hand, cupped the flame to prevent the wind from blowing it out. Ignoring Hutch's prickly response, Wilcox patiently explained how to hold the cigar close but not in the flame while rolling it until ash appeared. He encouraged Hutch to breath deeply and savor the smoke. When Wilcox was satisfied that the cigar burned evenly, he returned to his own cigar.

With the other steamboat falling behind, silence ruled the deck, but Hutch still wanted an answer about his father. "What _were_ you talking about before I joined you?"

Neither man responded. Wilcox cleared his throat, but it converged into a cough that he muffled with his hand. Tressiter studied the ripples in the river.

Hutch plunged straight ahead. "You were talking about me."

A white cloth flew out of Wilcox's pocket as a series of hacking coughs overtook him. He scuffled away from the rail. Hutch was about to ask another question when Tressiter spoke first. "Wilcox told me you know a lot about steamboats. Is that true, or are you just infatuated with the race like everyone else?"

"Both. How can you separate the two? Doesn't every riverboat captain boast about speed and performance, while every year boats become bigger and reflect the best craftsmanship?" Hutch stroked the varnished wooden rail, smooth as glass under his hand. "Andy is one of the finest examples and so is the crew—" Hutch halted. He hoped Tressiter couldn't see him blush over his gushing.

"You're impressed with the crew?"

"Yes, sir. Vogle may be an ass, but he hires experienced officers with solid reputations, starting with his pilots who know how to read the river. You and Miller are legendary. It's not the boats that win the race, it's the people."

"Read the river." Tressiter nodded. "Wilcox said you're whip-smart."

"And cocky, don't forget cocky." Wilcox said as he returned, picking up his smoldering cigar that was balanced precariously on the rail.

Hutch took a long pull on his and blew a cloud into Wilcox's face. "How can he forget with you reminding him all the time?"

"I can plainly see for myself," Tressiter said. "How would you like to become my cub on a trial basis?"

"What? Me a cub pilot?" Hutch could hardly sputter out the words after inhaling on the cigar. He felt surprisingly hot and pulled on his collar. Wilcox and Tressiter looked amused.

"We _were_ talking about you earlier," Tressiter said. "Wilcox explained you're not one for institutional learning. If you become my apprentice, your classroom will be my pilot-house."

Hutch's head reeled over the news, and possibly from the effects of the stogie. He almost forgot about his original objective in his excitement. "When do I start?"

The boat lurched, and he grabbed the rail, missing the answer. Tressiter and Wilcox appeared not to have felt the jolt. He could hear laughter in the distance, and a hand brushed his forehead.

"Not tonight," Wilcox answered. "And no more cigars. You're as green as a poker table."

"I don't feel good." Hutch moaned as a wave of nausea washed over him. What had happened to his plan? His legs collapsed underneath him as he slid to the deck. Hands grabbed and raised him up. Dimly aware of what was happening, he was hauled down the stairs and dragged to his room. Laughter at his expense penetrated the fog before a whirlpool of black overwhelmed him.

* * *

When he came to, he was in his bed stretched on his side, stripped down to his his union suit and shoes. He peeked over the edge of the mattress and saw a basin of lumpy yellow bile that made him dry heave.

A rasping wheeze from across the room caught his attention. Wilcox slept in a chair, legs sprawled out, hands twitching, and lips slightly parted. Hutch wagered the cigar had affected Wilcox too—his lungs, the idiot.

He wobbled over to Wilcox and shook his shoulder roughly to rouse him from his slumber. The dark eyes stayed glassy and unfocused longer than Hutch expected, but Wilcox slowly returned to life.

"You're feeling better?" Wilcox asked.

"Better than you. What was in the that cigar?"

"A squirrel," Wilcox said with a straight face. He rose from the chair, swayed but stayed upright. "If you were an experienced cigar smoker, you would have known not to inhale the smoke." He mustered a wink. "Now, get back to bed. Tressiter wants you to report to him tomorrow morning at ten o'clock sharp. Don't be late." And he headed to the door.

Wilcox's hand had barely touched the handle when Hutch asked, "You still have the money for your train ticket after the cost of the apprenticeship?"

Wilcox quirked his head and raised his eyebrows. "Yes, I do. You needn't worry."

"What kind of son would I be not to?" Hutch said.

"I knew it. You were eavesdropping." Wilcox shook his head. "But you couldn't have heard what I said."

Wilcox's reaction was too calm. Without giving in to disappointment, Hutch stayed on the trail and hunted down the answer. "Then tell me about my father, Uncle Jimmy."

This time Wilcox stiffened and his face paled, leaving two feverish red spots stranded on his cheeks. "No, you don't understand." Wilcox let go of the knob and collapsed back into the chair.

Hutch sank onto the end of the bed, as he mentally worked his way through the family tree in the Bible. "Howard Wilcox, your older brother, is my father."

The silence dragged on forever until Wilcox began talking softly. Hutch had to lean forward to hear.

"I wanted Tressiter to take you on as his apprentice so I told him you're my nephew." Another long pause and Wilcox continued. "Truth is, I don't know if you are."

Hutch's heart fell, but he did not give up and shrewdly prodded, "You have no notion who my father is, or you question the probability?"

"Hutchinson Wilcox was my brother. Hutchinson is the family name given to the eldest. I changed his name to Howard in the Bible to prevent anyone tracing you to the family and digging up old gossip." Wilcox raised his head and wiped his eyes with his knuckles. A slick film of water lingered on his index finger. "My brother, Hutch, was betrothed to your mother when the War broke out.

"After I met you I did some investigating. Sent letters off to neighbors and searched for family members who lived in Atlanta during the War. Madame Adelaide had given me your birthdate. Hutch had gone home on furlough about nine months before you were born. I was sure you were his." Wilcox sighed. "Then I received a response to one of my letters from a friend of Alice's. Alice had confided in her that she was in love with someone else, a Matthew Warrick. You could be his."

"You're saying my mother was a slut before New Orleans."

"No, I'm saying she was a young, romantic girl. She fell in love, or…"

"Or?"

"Alice was also strong-willed. She might have spread a rumor about Matthew to protect m-my brother. Avoid tarnishing Hutch's reputation."

Hutch nodded. His mother could be willful and proud. She never hid the fact from anyone that he was her son.

"This Matthew, where is he?" Hutch asked.

"He died. The War."

"And your brother?"

"The same."

"There must be something distinctive about one of them that would identify me as their bastard. Height? Coloring? Voice? Moles?" Hutch had never come so close to knowing who his father was, but the only men who could supply answers were buried in battlefields.

Wilcox shuddered. "I want to know as much as you, but you take after your mother. My brother and I looked alike. He was taller, but so was Matthew. Both had brown hair. I'm sorry. There's not much to go on."

"Do you have the letter?"

"Not on me. It's in a safety deposit box in St. Louis. When we get there, I'll give it to you." Nothing more to say, Wilcox pushed out of the chair with an effort.

"I'm sorry, Hutch," Wilcox said before leaving.

"So am I," Hutch whispered to the empty room.

* * *

Sunlight streamed from his window when Hutch woke up. He knew by the position of the sun he was late, and felt momentarily disappointed that he had missed Baton Rouge. With no time to dwell on last night's conversation, Hutch washed and dressed in a mad rush. The last thing he did before leaving his cabin was slip a string tie under his collar, hoping to knot it while snatching breakfast. The clock near the grand staircase confirmed he only had ten minutes before reporting to Tressiter.

* * *

In daylight the buffet's silver serving pieces dazzled like a mirror, but portions were beginning to run low.

Most of the gamblers had returned to the tables. Wilcox was not among them.

Sausage, bacon, and a small steak rubbed shoulders with the steaming eggs on his plate. Two slices of toast completed the ensemble until he spotted a tray of fruit with ruby red strawberries. As he sidled over, a man, short in stature with pomaded black hair cut in front of him and scooped up every last berry. Running short on time, Hutch jostled the man's arm. Three plump berries tumbled onto his eggs.

"Them's my strawberries," The man said, his voice menacing despite a slight lisp.

"Don't see any initials on them. Reckon they're mine." Hutch flashed a grin.

The man was unimpressed and took hold of his arm. "Why you little prick, I oughta—"

"—Phil, the game's starting," a voice shouted.

The tight grip loosened. "We're not finished." The man walked off.

Hutch brushed the sleeve of his suit and smoothed the wrinkles. He spied Forrest eating alone at a table, plunked down his plate, and greeted him with, "Where's Wilcox?"

Forrest pulled out his pocket watch, opened the cover, and snapped it closed several times without saying anything. After a bit, he answered, "Sleeping in. Heard tell you overindulged your passion for cigar smoking last night. After he tucked you in, he played 'til dawn."

Hutch detected far more glibness than honesty in Forrest's speech. "He could hardly stand up when he left my room and huffed like a locomotive."

"Well he chugged his way straight to a table." Forrest tilted his head. "Hear congratulations are in order. You're gonna become a pilot."

"I report to Tressiter at ten o'clock." Hutch bit into one of the precious strawberries.

Out came Forrest's timepiece from his vest pocket. "What are you doing here? You only have one minute. Less now, 58 seconds, 57—"

Hutch tugged the napkin from his shirt collar and pushed away from the table almost knocking down the chair. Something about the way Tressiter had talked about the Andy and Vogle warned Hutch that piloting was the man's religion. He dashed out of the salon.

* * *

Hutch's first lesson was not what he expected. Tressiter treated him cordially, but immediately explained the proper form of address while on the boat. He was Hutchinson and his new boss was Mr. Tressiter.

He made his first blunder before he had a glimpse of the Mississippi from the exalted height of the top deck.

"Don't touch the wheel," Tressiter ordered. "Not until I give you permission, Hutchinson."

Not more than a minute into his new career and the cramped quarters were beginning to close in. He was reminded of Hull, but blinked back the memory. "What am I to do?"

"Watch the river. Everyone is impressed with the boat, but the trick to navigating is knowing the river. Memorize every curve, every sandbar. Respect her, and maybe she'll grant you her favors." Tressiter's voice softened with every word, obviously in love with the Mississippi.

"You're a virgin, boy?"

Hutch was sure he colored at the question, but stared out the window without answering.

"She's headstrong, spiteful, and a playful mistress during the day, and at night she's more. She's a seductive siren. When you're confident you learned everything about her, she will demand something new from you. She'll teach you how to be the most satisfying of lovers to her human sisters, but you'll never grow bored with her like you might with women."

The water was peaceful as they neared a bend that blocked the next section of river from view. Hutch forgot his misgivings, stepped closer to the glass, and scrutinized the banks and water. Hull never talked like this. He wanted to see what Tressiter saw. A flickering 'V' formation of birds swooped down and disappeared behind the jutting bank into what looked like the middle of the river. "The boat needs to turn wide and stick close to the east bank."

"Why?"

"Because of the birds, they're not water fowl. They must have alighted on land. The bend doesn't twist sharply back but extends for at least a quarter mile."

"Care to make a wager?" Tressiter said as he turned the massive wooden wheel and the boat cut toward the right.

"Are you going to tell Wilcox?"

"Nothing we say in the pilot-house is repeated outside of it," Tressiter answered solemnly. He pulled a cigar from his jacket, and a shadow of smile tweaked his lips. "Want one?"

* * *

The lesson ended early when Tressiter berthed the Andy at the Natchez dock. Hutch watched with awe as the mammoth beast slid to a dignified halt. As soon as they landed, Tressiter headed out the door. He offered to show Hutch around Natchez, but Hutch declined. He wanted to check on Wilcox.

Back in the salon, the chef's staff was removing the last of the lunch. Hutch grabbed an apple out of habit, but he was full after the large meal that was delivered right to the pilot-house door. He searched the room, but there was no sign of Wilcox or Forrest. He quickly retreated when he saw Turner fawning over two gamblers in a corner.

Still exhilarated after his lesson, he decided to walk off his excitement by exploring the buildings along the dock. He could hardly stop thinking about what he had learned. He had been correct about the protrusion of land. Tressiter said little when he was right, and issued a stinging insult when he was wrong, but it motivated him to analyze the situation again.

He roamed the streets, finding the shops less interesting than the ones in New Orleans. A peddler's cart crammed with odds and ends like an overflowing pirate's chest showed promise. No two items matched, except for a tray of rings, thin and thick bands in gold and silver. His hand unconsciously rubbed the ring under his clothes. They looked like his mother's but in better condition. "How much are these?"

"Beautiful, aren't they? A good-looking young fellow like you must need more than one. How many girlfriends do you have? I'll make you a good price, " the peddler urged, his thick accent indicating recent European origins.

"No time for girls. I'm engaged to a steamship," Hutch said.

The peddler furrowed his brow in confusion as if he were trying to translate what he had heard.

Another item caught Hutch's eye. Among the pots and pans a voluptuous beauty dangled her charms—blonde, with a satin texture. "Can I try the guitar?"

Hutch had learned a few chords from Adelaide's former cook who would occasionally strum his guitar after preparing dinner.

He no longer felt welcome among the gamblers to play the piano, and since the instrument would soon be sold, a guitar would be a pleasant alternative.

After a small exchange of money, Hutch returned to the riverboat with his new possession tucked under his arm.

* * *

Tempted to head directly to his room and try out his guitar, Hutch stuck his head into the grand salon first. Still no Wilcox or Forrest. He had no idea where their cabins were located. He queried crewmen, but no one knew.

In his cabin he sat on the bed, and inspected the guitar. It was in beautiful condition with all its strings. After tuning it, he became engrossed in locating and playing chords. He hardly noticed when the Andy left the dock and glided up river. His thoughts strayed to the conundrum of who his real father was when he became aware that his fingers were plucking the tune, "Streets of Laredo." A tight knot formed in his stomach. He abandoned the guitar and went in search of Wilcox. Determined to find him, he was prepared to knock on every door. He looked down his hall, and checked the starboard side. About to scour the salon for the fourth time, he heard a commotion coming from the starboard promenade deck.

Loud voices greeted him when he opened the door. Turner was surrounded by a covey of furious gamblers with an outer circle of men egging the others on. Forrest lounged in a chair and watched. Wilcox was not among the crowd.

"We've had enough, Turner!" one man exclaimed.

"Yeah! We're onto you. You can't borrow from one of us to pay the other!" said a second man.

A chorus rang out in agreement.

Hutch folded his arms and leaned against the wall, prepared to enjoy the spectacle.

"My bank is in Vicksburg. When we get there, I'll pay back every cent I owe you."

"You said that about Baton Rouge, knowing damn well we were stopping in the middle of the night." Affable Stinky spoke in a not so affable tone.

"You told me your bank was in Natchez," sneered Phil. "No more excuses. Let's throw him overboard!"

More voices cheered as Turner twisted away and fought off grasping hands. "Please! No! I'll get you the money immediately if you let go of me."

Hutch knew exactly where that money would come from. "Always the first in line to get a loan from the Wilcox National Bank and Trust. You're a leech, Turner."

"I'm a leech?" Turner broke free as the men watched, fascinated. "Until you arrived, I never had to remind Wilcox what he owed me. I hear he's closed all his bank accounts along the Mississippi to support his mistress's crippled son."

The throng gasped as one.

"You should talk. Exactly how do you fuck and kiss ass at the same time while standing on one leg?" Hutch taunted back.

Turner leaped at Hutch, but the gamblers held him back.

"That's enough." Everyone turned to see who issued the soft command. Forrest.

"Forrest's right. We all had enough! Toss him overboard!" one of the gamblers roared.

"No! You can't! I have a wooden leg and can't swim." Lifted off the ground by four men, Turner's eyes were wide with fear.

"Nothing to worry about, Turner, wood floats," Hutch jeered.

The men heaved Turner like a sack of potatoes. They swung him to and fro, feet first over the river.

A husky voice shouted, "On the count of three. Ready, boys? One! Twooo! Threeeee!"

Hutch rushed to the rail to see Turner splash into the Mississippi. He sunk below the water, but his head quickly bobbed to the surface. With no hesitation, his arms stroked through the water and he headed for shore.

"A liar and a bloodsucking nuisance. Deserves what he got," Hutch mumbled.

"What about you? You're a bloodsucker too." Phil's harsh voice sliced through the air. "Turner was right about you. Wilcox only played in one session, and that was before you showed up. Since then, he's either babysitting you or coughing his guts up in his cabin."

Confirmation about Wilcox's missing whereabouts mixed with alarm for his own safety. His heart skipped a beat. Hutch realized as he scanned the faces of the crowd that they had turned into an angry mob. He stepped back and bumped into the chest of a gambler. There was no escape. "That's some grudge you got, Phil. It was only three strawberries."

"What do you say, Forrest? Will Wilcox care if we throw this one over the rail?" Stinky asked.

Hutch gulped down his Adam's apple while waiting for an answer.

The clicking of Forrest's pocket watch counted down his fate. When the cover clamped shut, Forrest said, "Could be you're doing Wilcox a favor."

That was all the men needed to hear. Hutch's feet were no longer touching the ground.

"On the count of three! One! Twooo! Th—"

.

.

TBC

_Comments always welcome. Thanks for reading._

* * *

_Bibliography:_

Twain, Mark, Life on the Mississippi. New York: Dover, 2000.


	12. In Sickness and in Health

_**Characters In Part Eleven**_

_Gregory House = Gregory V. "Hutch" Hutchinson, age 15  
__James Wilson = James Wilcox  
__Michael Tritter = Martin Tressiter_  
_Eric Foreman = Eli Forrest_  
_Mark Warner = Matthew Warrick_

.

.

"One! Twooo!"

Hutch fought hard to wriggle out of the men's grip as his body seesawed into the final backswing. He closed his eyes in preparation to take flight…

"Th—"

"But you're not doing Tresitter a favor." Forrest could be heard over the count.

An off-key chorus of "Huh? Wha—? Wha'd he say?" issued from the crowd, while Hutch stayed suspended in air; the men holding him, reluctant to let go.

"Why would Tressiter care?" shouted a voice.

"You're holding his new cub pilot. He won't be happy to lose out on the apprenticeship money Wilcox owes him."

Grunts and curses accompanied Hutch's short journey back to the deck. The crowd quickly dispersed, but a few of the gamblers sheepishly mumbled, "No hard feelings?" and offered to shake hands before going inside. Stinky slipped a cheroot into his breast pocket.

Soon there was no one left but Hutch and a smirking Forrest.

"Impeccable timing," Hutch burst out. "If you hadn't spoke up when you did. If you had sneezed, I'd be in the river."

"I was playing with you. There isn't a man on board that wouldn't have seized the opportunity."

"Poker has gone to your head. Not everything is a game."

"Turner wasn't." Forrest squinted at the sun-dappled water. "He deserved a dunking."

"He did, but how will you make Wilcox understand?" Hutch asked. Trying to seek revenge for his own scare, he added, "He's going to be furious when he finds out."

Forrest sat still, too still, as if he were deliberately trying not to expose his discomfort. "What are you suggesting? Are you going to tell Wilcox?" He suddenly appeared relaxed and parried with, "It was your words that incited the crowd into action."

They were at a draw. Hutch tried to school his features into an unreadable mask and explained straight-faced, "It was my impression Turner decided to get off at Natchez on his own."

"Absolutely. His own free will," Forrest replied knowingly, with an almost imperceptible nod.

With the problem of Turner out of the way, Hutch spoke what was on his mind. "Where is Wilcox? He was never in the salon. Is it because of his consumption?" His mother's quick demise punched an icy finger into his heart. "Is he dying?"

Forrest shrugged. "A flare up. Happens occasionally. He'll be fine in a day or—"

"Take me to him."

"He expressly said not to bother you."

"He's family. My responsibility, not yours." Hutch loomed over Forrest, trying his best to be intimidating.

"He told me there's no way to be sure you're kin."

"And no way to prove he isn't. I have a right to see him," Hutch said, his voice steadfast.

Forrest shifted in his chair. "All right, but you're on your own when he sees you. I'm staying out of the line of fire."

**

* * *

**

The need to explain why he was checking on Wilcox never presented itself. Wilcox was on the cusp of reality. Clutching the blankets, his face screwed with in irritation, Wilcox raised a trembling index finger and pointed at him, but that was as far as his threat went. Wilcox could not lift his head off the pillow.

The cabin was larger and grander than his; the air reeked of the sick room, stale sweat predominating. Hutch ignored the odor in favor of checking Wilcox's condition. He could feel the heat before he touched the forehead.

Wilcox mustered two words, "Get out," as Hutch gently tugged the blanket from his fingers, and ran a hand over the nightshirt. It was spongy with sweat, turning small spots of coughed up blood into blurry rosettes. He noted how unnaturally thin Wilcox was. The sternum and ribcage stood out in sharp relief.

"Save your breath," he gruffly replied. Opening the two windows to allow fresh, warm air to circulate throughout the cabin, he felt a small twinge of relief. At least Wilcox had the lungpower to speak.

"Hutch?"

He turned at the sound of his name.

"Don't you have real doctoring to do?" Wilcox asked through chattering teeth, shivering in the balmy Mississippi heat.

Forrest pushed off from the wall where he had been listening and dropped into a chair conveniently placed by the bed. There was a bowl of water and towels on the nightstand. He immediately swirled one around and wrung it out, placing the compress on Wilcox's forehead.

"His fever spiked. He's not talking to you, but his brother. Hutchinson was a physician." Forrest shook his head. "I swear when I left him earlier his fever had broke and he was on the mend."

Hutch walked around the bed and dipped his hand into the water. "This is room temperature. Go get a pitcher of water with ice, fresh linens, and lots of pillows. Meanwhile, I'll find a fresh nightshirt. He must own a dozen of them, the way he likes clothes."

"I'm no one's slave, and I'm not a nurse," Forrest snapped, but he was already standing, and was muttering about returning shortly as he shut the door behind him.

Coughs and babble stuttered out of Wilcox's mouth until Forrest arrived with everything Hutch had asked for. Wilcox had sunk into a world of his own making. An acting troupe could be reciting Shakespeare at the foot of his bed, and he would never have noticed.

Forrest unhesitatingly helped change the bed and did not bat an eye when Hutch asked him to hold Wilcox while he stripped and replaced the nightshirt. Most likely Forrest had handled these chores in the past on his own.

Wilcox was oblivious to what was happening around him. He was talking again to his dead brother, flinching as he spoke about cannon and gunfire. Of special interest to Hutch was Wilcox's mention of his mother. Before he settled him into a mound of pillows to ease his breathing, and placed cold compresses upon his head and under his neck, Wilcox mentioned Alice's name several times. Hutch could have sworn he heard the word, "Love," but Forrest had a small coughing fit of his own that prevented Hutch from hearing the rest of the sentence. Hutch swung sharply to see if Forrest had been faking, but was met with a look of innocence.

Time ticked slowly by. They took up posts that flanked each side of the bed, taking turns refreshing the cold compresses, saying little while listening to Wilcox's ragged breathing, and watching his restless twitching.

"Shouldn't you be with Tressiter?" Forrest pulled out his pocket watch. "It's five o'clock."

"I still have an hour," Hutch said, but had no intention of leaving until Wilcox showed signs of improvement.

"Isn't it time for you to eat? You must have gone three hours without putting anything into your mouth."

"Over five, but who's counting. You trying to get rid of me?"

Forrest rolled his eyes in answer.

Forrest was clearly uncomfortable having him around, which made Hutch more stubborn about leaving. "How do you know Wilcox's brother was a doctor?"

"He doesn't make a habit of talking about his past, but I've pieced things together from episodes like these, or when he drinks too much."

Hutch drew a series of conclusions. "You're afraid he'll say something I shouldn't hear. So was Wilcox when he first took to his bed. He told you to keep me away."

"He likes his privacy and I'm here to watch out for his best interests."

"Why do you care?"

"We're partners." Forrest shrugged his shoulders. "Most gamblers have someone to watch their backs. We met in St. Louis when I was playing poker in saloons, hoping to get an invitation from the riverboat crowd. He vouched for me and staked my first trip down the Mississippi. Gave me hints how to improve my game."

"You two are in cahoots to improve your odds."

"No, we usually play on different boats, share news when we get together." Forrest studied his hands. "I was the one who first heard about Alice Vaughn's passing."

"And you knew Wilcox would want to know because—?"

Forrest pulled out his pocket watch and repeatedly clicked the cover. "I knew Alice Vaughn was the name of his brother's fiancée. I thought he'd want to know." Forrest shut the cover with a firm snap, making it clear that any more questions were unwelcome.

Hutch sat back in his chair and said nothing. His eyelids felt like they were lined with lead as he listened to Wilcox's labored breathing. He drifted off to sleep, but woke up with a start. A change had occurred in the room. The cabin was deadly quiet and Forrest was bending over Wilcox.

"Is he dead?" Hutch demanded.

"Shush. No," Forrest gently admonished. "The fever broke. He's sleeping peacefully."

Beads of sweat trailed down Wilcox's forehead, flattening damp locks of hair to his head. His face fairly shone with perspiration, and his breathing was nearly that of a healthy person.

No sooner than a wave of relief washed over him, a new worry vied for his attention. Hutch couldn't forget how bony and light Wilcox felt when he shifted him to change the bed linens. "When he wakes up, he needs to eat."

Forrest was skeptical. "Hunh. Tell me how we're going to do that? You saw him at dinner last night. He refused your slice of bread, and that was a good day."

Hutch refused to listen. "You need to bring food back from the buffet."

"Now I'm your waiter? Who's going to stay with him?" Forrest's eyes darted toward Wilcox.

"Fine, it's time for me to report to Tressiter. I'll send someone back with food."

As Hutch prepared to leave, Forrest pointed to himself. "Don't forget food for the starving troops."

"Do I look like General Sherman to you?" Hutch answered as he clicked the door closed.

**

* * *

**

As soon as he walked into the dining area of the salon, several men greeted him by his nickname. A few went so far as to call him, Mr. Hutchinson. He noted some opened their mouths as if to engage him in conversation, but he never slowed as he limped toward the buffet. The experience was entirely new and he had mixed feelings about it. If he could use his new status to his advantage, and hastily dispatch a waiter to Wilcox's room, all the better. If it meant he was the center of attention, he became self-conscious. The gamblers' hypocrisy irked him, and he wanted to shout, "I'm the same obnoxious kid you wanted to throw overboard," but he held his tongue and beckoned over a busboy.

Hungry, Hutch slapped together a sandwich and wolfed it down as he selected a variety of digestible foods to tempt Wilcox. He chose mashed potatoes with gravy, bread and butter, a puddle of applesauce, a pool of corn chowder, fish, and slices of turkey like the ones that adorned Wilcox's plate the night before. The waiter politely grinned under the increasing weight of the tray as Hutch crammed plates and bowls over the entire surface. Having second thoughts about Forrest's request, he reshuffled the dishes and shoehorned in a plate of juicy, blood-red roast beef. To be sure Forrest got the message, he arranged green beans to form a rectangle on top of the meat. Next, he unscrewed the cap on a pepper caster, and carefully shook the contents within the vegetables to create the 'X' on the confederate flag.

Glancing one more time over the length of the table, he decided there was no more food to pillage, and dismissed the busboy by telling him where to deliver the tray. The smile froze on the busboy's face and he looked confused. Hutch could hear Wilcox jabbering in his ear, something about gentlemen and tips. With his altruism wearing thin he said, "Mr. Forrest will generously compensate you for your trouble. Don't leave until he does."

**

* * *

**

A flight of steps brought Hutch to the entrance of the pilot-house. Fully aware that he was running late, he took a deep breath before opening the door.

Luckily or unluckily, Vogle was in the room arguing with Tressiter. The man filled up half the space with his girth and self-importance. He suddenly stopped, stretched out an arm, and pointed straight at Hutch. "Great Caesar's ghost! What are you doing here?"

"Hutchinson is the new cub I told you about," Tressiter cut in.

"He's not a cub." Vogle's eyes raked over him. "He's a mutt."

Tressiter drew to his full height, a hairsbreadth shorter than the Captain. "Nonetheless, you signed the documents. Hutchinson is part of my crew."

Vogle stared at Hutch, the corners of his mouth turning down. "Shoulda known you'd pick someone with as little charm and as much nerve as your old man." He dismissed the two of them by saying curtly, "Carry on," and left.

Tressiter's expression was unreadable. Not wanting to stir up the emotions that simmered under the cool exterior, Hutch took up his position at the window and silently inventoried the view before him. Two riverboats were steaming ahead, creating a creamy brown froth. They were in shallow water. He studied the rippling surface for breaks and the possibility of sandbars. Soon he forgot about the altercation and became deeply engrossed in the shiny ribbon of water, like a magpie fascinated with a sparkling gewgaw.

His concentration fractured when Tressiter cleared his throat and began speaking. "Vogle and I were raised in the same small town. Both our fathers were businessmen, but mine decided to pursue a career as the town drunk—a mean one too. Vogle never lets me forget the fact. I'd have preferred growing up a bastard."

"I prefer answers, even if I don't like what I hear," Hutch said, never taking his eyes off the river. He stood that way for a long while, listening to Tressiter bark orders to the chief engineer through the tube that connected the pilot-house to the engine room.

The sun flirted lazily at the horizon before Tressiter spoke again. "How's Wilcox?"

Tressiter seemed to ferret out information about he and Wilcox without spending much time in their presence. Must come from his experience on how to pry secrets from the river. Hutch wished he had that ability. "He's doing better. Forrest is taking care of him."

"But you're worried. You haven't asked me a question since you got here."

The tawny glow of a cigar reflected in the window. Hutch breathed in the rich scent when the smoke reached his nose. "You haven't quizzed me."

Tressiter left the wheel and stood beside Hutch. "It's not just the Andy that's fighting the current this evening, it's us. Let's forgo the night lesson, and we'll start fresh tomorrow."

**

* * *

**

Any fears he had that Wilcox had taken a turn for the worst were allayed as soon as he opened the door to the cabin. Forrest sat beside the bed reading a book while Wilcox snored, his face no longer flushed. However he scowled at the scattered collection of plates. Every portion sat cold and congealed except the one that had contained the roast beef.

"Didn't expect you back so soon." Forrest closed his book, stretched his back and arms.

"Couldn't you get Wilcox to eat anything?"

"Don't look at me. I tried. He might be weak, but he's stubborn. Refused everything but the applesauce—he ate three spoonfuls. By the way, you need to reimburse me for the busboy's tip."

"Collect it from Wilcox. He's less stubborn about money than food," Hutch retorted.

"What are you two arguing about?" a muzzy voice spoke from the pillows.

Hutch ran a hand over Wilcox's forehead. He was cool and dry. "You need to eat."

Wilcox peered from clear eyes, but his voice was weak. "You're not supposed to be here."

"Nothing much you can do about it until you're strong enough to pull me out of here by my ear, which means you need to eat."

"How about a compromise. I'm thirsty."

Hutch poured a glass of water from the pitcher and held it to Wilcox's lips. As Wilcox grasped it and drank greedily, Hutch had an idea. He turned to Forrest. "Stay with him until I get back."

**

* * *

**

Hutch swaggered into the galley as if he belonged there and demanded to speak to the head chef. A short, heavyset man who obviously enjoyed his own creations ambled over, wiping his hands on his apron. Hutch could feel the floorboards bounce with every step.

"Oui, monsieur?"

Reminded of Thibeau, Hutch knew he had found the right man. He smiled and explained in French exactly what he wanted.

**

* * *

**

"This is so good," Wilcox remarked with astonishment, and not for the first time since Hutch returned with the tureen.

"It's an old family recipe," Hutch explained proudly, not bothered at all by his half-truth. The recipe was from Thibeau's family, not his. "There's more chicken soup if you want."

Wilcox's eyebrows shot up. "Alice was an accomplished woman, but I doubt if she could find the kitchen in her own home." He sighed. "I suppose things change," then pointed to the empty bowl. "Maybe a bit more."

Hutch hid his smile as he turned his back and ladled soup into the bowl. This malleable Wilcox amused him. Amazing what the aftereffects of a fever and deliciously intoxicating food could do.

The chef, Louis, had been most cooperative and willing to recreate Thibeau's recipe. His tall hat perpetually bobbed in agreement as Hutch listed the required herbs for the chicken stock. Louis sliced slivers of carrots and paper-thin celery while he confided how the gamblers' simple palettes were taxing his patience. When he finished, he handed a knife to Hutch and watched attentively while Hutch demonstrated exactly how the chicken should be chopped and shredded. He explained that he wanted the meat cut so fine, that the threads would stay suspended in the liquid.

Louis clucked his tongue in sympathy and splashed an extra shot of sherry into the concoction when Hutch confessed the soup was for his sick uncle.

And here he was offering Wilcox a third portion. Forrest said nothing but watched in amazement.

Hutch pulled off his jacket and removed the collar from his shirt, making himself comfortable. "Get some rest, Forrest, I'll stay here tonight. You can watch him tomorrow."

Forrest opened his mouth to protest when Wilcox cut in.

"No need for either of you—"

"Yes, we do," Hutch and Forrest answered together.

Forrest laughed and looked at Hutch. "Fine. You get the night watch. I need to stretch my legs and play some poker before going to bed." He picked up his own discarded belongings before quietly exiting.

"Did you have enough?" Hutch pointed to the near-empty bowl in Wilcox's lap.

Wilcox looked down as if he had forgotten the bowl was there. He nodded and handed it to Hutch, then pushed back into the pillows. "You aren't going to stare at me all night? Stick a mirror under my nose every hour to see if I'm still alive?"

Hutch eyed the tufted, fringed couch under the window. His legs would dangle off the end, but he could catch an hour or two between check ups on Wilcox.

"Too much trouble. It's simpler to stab you with one of your fancy stickpins and hear you squeal like a puppy."

"You're a resourceful kid." Wilcox smiled appreciatively.

Hutch pounced on Wilcox's tipsy state and returned to the chair. "Was my father resourceful?"

"Which one?"

Apparently, Wilcox was in possession of some of his wits. "Either. Matthew or Hutchinson."

Wilcox rubbed a hand over his face as if to help remember or erase a memory. "Matt wasn't resourceful as much as dependable. Hutch and I would laugh at Matt's devotion to your mother. We would tease Alice about how he mooned over her. He would have jumped into the Chattahoochee River in the dead of winter if she asked him. One time, before he came calling, I gave her an old dog collar and leash." Wilcox beamed. "You should have heard her lecture me."

Hutch could not believe Wilcox's unguarded behavior. He carefully encouraged Wilcox to keep talking. "All four of you were friends?"

"Yes. It was understood by the our families that Alice was promised to Hutchinson, but until the official betrothal we were often thrown together, going to the same parties and socials." Wilcox sucked in some air and began to cough. His hand roamed over the coverlet in search of his handkerchief. Hutch spotted it and placed it in Wilcox's hand, then patiently waited until the fit was over before asking another question.

"And what was your brother like?"

"Hutchinson? He was the best. Everybody loved him. My father was devastated when he learned of his death." Wilcox turned away. "He died shortly after."

"What about you? He had you. You were a surgeon. He must have been proud."

"A surgeon," Wilcox scoffed. "Hutchinson had joined the Confederacy as a doctor. I wanted to be with him but not fire a gun, so I volunteered to become a surgeon. Blacksmiths receive more training." Wilcox shuddered and briefly pressed his hands to his eyes. "I extracted bullets, but because I worked quickly, my specialty was amputating limbs. What father wants to hear about his son's ability to saw off arms and legs in less than a minute?"

"I'm sorry," Hutch said, not sure what else to say. He dared to ask, "So your brother was perfect?"

Wilcox yawned. He was falling asleep. "What?"

Hutch repeated the question.

"As close as you can get," Wilcox slurred, his eyelids fluttering closed and staying shut.

"Then he's probably not my father," Hutch said out loud, barely disguising his despair.

He was startled when Wilcox murmured, "You're better than you think."

.

.

TBC

_Thank you for reading. Comments Appreciated.  
_

**

* * *

**

_Bibliography:  
_Twain, Mark, Life on the Mississippi. New York: Dover, 2000.


	13. A Day at the Races

_**Characters In Part Twelve**_

_Gregory House = Gregory V. "Hutch" Hutchinson, age 15_

_James Wilson = James Wilcox_

_Michael Tritter = Martin Tressiter_

_Eric Foreman = Eli Forrest_

_Tucker = Turner_

_Ali (Stalker Girl) = Annie_

_._

_.  
_

Hutch opened the cabin door onto an unexpected sight; Wilcox standing over a shaving mirror and swiping a stripe of soapy lather from his face with a razor. There had been steady improvement in the last couple of days. Wilcox had refused the comfort of his bed and insisted on the couch where he would deal endless poker hands to himself, playing against invisible opponents. From the way he was dressed, the couch was no longer good enough either.

Half-dressed, the braces of his trousers flapping against the side of his legs like hollow wings, a bare-chested Wilcox was preparing to flee his makeshift hospital room. However, his posture declared he was not fit. His right arm propped up his left as he steadied the razor in his trembling hand. A "Damn it," was quickly followed by an "Ow!"

"Seriously? You think you're ready to go back to the smoke factory? Even the salon's tableware stinks of tobacco," Hutch said.

"Silver forks and porcelain? Not likely." Wilcox impatiently dabbed the corner of an open handkerchief against the nick on his cheek. "But I had something else in mind. Today is Race day with a capital 'R'. We land in Memphis in a couple of hours and spend the whole day in port until the boat race begins at 5:30. Meanwhile, there's harness racing in town. Tressiter came by earlier and invited us to join him. Want to come?"

Nothing else had been on Hutch's mind except the riverboat race. An outing was a tempting distraction. Before Hutch could answer, another curse fell from Wilcox's mouth. Hutch rolled his eyes. "Sit down and I'll shave you."

"What experience do you have with those peach fuzz cheeks of yours? I'm quite attached to my neck," Wilcox said, running the back of his fingers across his throat as if wiping blood away.

"I was a soldier in Miss Adelaide's war on beauty. A couple of her women had well-developed five o'clock shadows that needed erasing. A close shave and viewing them in candlelight did wonders." Hutch removed the blade from Wilcox's hand, and pushed him over to the couch. Truth be told, all the ladies kept their hair removal rituals a secret from him, but out of curiosity, he had practiced on dead squirrels.

As if reading his mind, Wilcox muttered instructions before leaning back against the couch. Hutch held his breath as he carefully swiped soap and facial hair from the face. Halfway through, Wilcox ran his hand over his clean cheek and grunted his approval, but Hutch suspected Wilcox was also holding his breath through most of the operation.

"You're really quite good." Wilcox's eyebrows raised in approval as he inspected his skin in the mirror. "You have doctor's hands."

"No more talk about schools or training. My career has set sail and is on course," Hutch answered. He sat on the couch and snooped through the clutter on the small table next to him. There were scattered remains from breakfast—an omelet and potatoes. Also a small stack of loosely folded newspapers from Vicksburg and other towns they had passed. Forrest must have retrieved them at each port.

He looked up and saw Wilcox pondering which vest to wear with his ubiquitous black suit—a swamp green with bilious yellow checks, or an anemic pink pinstripe. "Didn't you say a gentleman's clothes never attracts attention? If you're going into town, why not wear the vest you wore in New Orleans?"

Wilcox nodded his agreement and sighed. "But you now know I'm not a gentleman." Nevertheless he replaced the others and pulled out the black.

Hutch could not put his finger on what had changed in their relationship, but something had. Wilcox was less likely to question everything he said, and Hutch felt less need to be wary and go on the attack.

After knotting his tie, Wilcox rubbed his palms together in anticipation. "Let's go to the salon. I can warm up with a few rounds of cards before the boat docks."

Hutch did not stir a muscle.

"What? I promise to sit off to the side and not breathe in any smoke."

Hutch shrugged off the tart remark. Wilcox was going to do what he wanted. "Not that." He picked his words carefully. "I wanted to ask you something. I overheard the men talking. They said my mother was your mistress."

Wilcox closed his eyes and slumped against the bureau in mock annoyance, but his pallor bleached to candle wax. "Ho-how can you believe such nonsense? Didn't you live in the same house as your mother?"

"Could have been when I crawled on all fours and drooled."

"No. She was never my mistress. I never knew where she was until a few days before I met you. If I had, do you think I'd let her work in a brothel?" Wilcox raised a shaking hand to his eyes and stopped talking. He snatched up his handkerchief as a cough caught him unawares. When he stopped, he stated calmly, "Gamblers are worse than gossiping old women."

"All right," Hutch answered. He had to ask, and was satisfied with the answer. "And if you want to play cards and make yourself sick, I'm not stopping you."

"Good, then let's go," Wilcox answered, nonplussed.

* * *

What Hutch left out of his concession was that he planned to watch Wilcox like a hawk. Wilcox stuck to his word and found an empty seat at an end table where Forrest was playing. Hutch also observed the byplay among the players. They greeted Wilcox nonchalantly as if they had not missed him, but nudged each other. A man one table over replaced his smoke with chewing tobacco. Hutch spotted Stinky's face screw up in consternation as he removed his vile smelling cheroot from his mouth, kiss it, and mash the lit end into a saucer.

Normally the room would settle down to the soft clatter of chips and the occasional boastful raise, but crewmen were busy filing delicate trim from the woodwork and carrying away excess furniture in anticipation of the big race.

Hutch sought out Louis in the galley. By the time he returned, half the furniture was cleared out of the salon. He sank into a spared chair on the perimeter and watched the card players duel and call each other's bluffs. Within twenty minutes Wilcox was scowling at a plate of steaming macaroni and cheese that had magically appeared at his elbow. He narrowed his eyes as he stared at Hutch, deliberately shoveling a forkful into his mouth and chewing slowly.

Wilcox was on another winning streak when the boat slowed down and jigged to a stop. After a few more hands, he pulled out his watch, checked the time, and said something to Forrest. They both picked up their chips and left the table.

"We're meeting Tressiter in town," Wilcox said when he was within speaking distance.

About to open his mouth, Hutch was forestalled when Forrest said, "He's getting a carriage," and cast a meaningful look in Wilcox's direction.

Everyone was watching out for Wilcox's welfare. Hutch relaxed and looked forward to his first horse race.

* * *

Hutch turned around in his seat in order to face Wilcox and Forrest. He was enjoying the carriage ride, and spending time in the company of men who did not eye him as fish bait, but he wanted to understand why everyone was more excited about horse racing than the boat race.

"You gamble every day. Why do you care about watching dumb animals circle a track?"

"Completely different," Forrest supplied.

"Cards don't have legs," Wilcox added, as if that explained everything.

Hutch dismissed the two men. "You fellows aren't much brighter than equines." He looked at Tressiter who was chomping on the end of an unlit cigar. "What about you?"

"I don't cotton to being called an idiot. You're not getting an answer out of me," Tressiter answered good-naturedly. "You'll have to find out for yourself."

Before Hutch saw the track, he caught his colleagues' fever. The fair was laid out on the outskirts of town. A picturesque strip of land with lots of poplars and maples hugging close to tents and pavilions and lining the central boulevard, shielding patrons from the summer heat. Colorful flags fluttered in the breeze sending the pungent scent of livestock wafting past his nose. Barkers touted wares and games, families and couples nibbled confections from tiny paper sacks. Visitors ogled everything in sight, chattering and pointing excitedly to what they wanted to do next.

"You look like a wagering man, sir. Step right up and let me guess your age, weight or the month you were born. I play fair and square. You choose which one."

Hutch kept walking.

"You, sir. You, with the striking blue eyes. Give a family man a chance to earn a living. It's all in good fun."

Hutch made the mistake of seeking out who was speaking, and his eyes met the gaze of the girl standing next to the pitchman. He slowed. She was petite, and blonde, and dressed in a soft shade of blue that enhanced her peaches-and-cream complexion. He swiveled his head, but no one else was reacting to the man's words. Wilcox, Tressiter, and Forrest were up ahead. He pointed his finger at his chest.

"Yes, you, my good man. My daughter, Annie here, challenged me." He clasped his hand on his daughter's shoulder. She bent her head, but looked at Hutch through her lashes.

His comrades forgotten, Hutch joined the man and his daughter. His age or weight would be easy. "How much to guess the month I was born?"

"Only a nickel, my boy." The man turned to the crowd and waved a piece of paper in front of them. "I'll write a month down. If I'm within two months, I win."

Within two months, give or take. The odds had considerably increased from the one-in-twelve chance the man originally claimed. He was about to decline when Annie looked him boldly in the eye. Her sweet pink lips slightly parted in a smile. His hand dug into his pocket…

… And he was yanked backward by his collar. He heard the crowd titter as a barely audible voice whispered in his ear, "Be a sucker on your own time." Wilcox clamped a hand on his shoulder and steered him away.

"Hey! It's my nickel, if I want to throw it away, that's none of your business."

"I saw the way that girl looked at you. You were about to lose more than a nickel, H-Hutch."

The pretty face faded at Wilcox's stutter. Wilcox had been careful not to call him Greg or Hutch since he had announced his new nickname the first day on the boat.

Any vestige of humiliation was completely forgotten as they neared the racetrack and the giddy roar from the crowd reached his ears.

* * *

"There are trotters and pacers," Wilcox explained.

Just he and Wilcox watched the drivers direct their horses onto the track. They were sitting alone for now, on barrels Forrest had rustled up, and far enough away from the immediate dust kicked up by horse's hooves. Forrest was placing their bets, and Tressiter muttered something about craving a smoke and disappeared.

Hutch nodded his head dutifully as he absorbed information about length of races, drivers' strategies, and a smattering of history about standardbreds. Normally he would be agog with the information, but he was hard-pressed to think about anything except Annie.

"She's pretty," Hutch let slip.

"These are colts, not fillies," Wilcox answered, looking confused. Then a sly half-smile formed. "Wait. You're not talking about horses, are you? You're talking about that gal back at the game booths."

Hutch could feel a blush prickling his cheeks. "She's pretty," he repeated, tongue-tied by new emotions and a tingling physical sensation he'd never experienced before, except alone in bed.

"Stay away from her."

"You have no right to lecture me. You're not my father, and won't admit to being my uncle." Hutch saw Wilcox's mouth press closed. Hutch did not want to argue, but he wanted to see Annie. A few minutes later, and another distraction cut into his meditation about cornsilk hair and mesmerizing doe-eyes. Forrest was hiding behind a group of strangers beckoning him.

He excused himself by saying, "I'm going to find the lemonade vendor. Want me to bring him over?"

"No need. Fill this up." Wilcox produced a collapsible tin cup from his pocket, part of a military mess kit.

"You come prepared."

"It's not right for me to drink from the same cup as everyone else." Wilcox indicated his chest with his hand. "Blood." He pulled an identical one out. "Here. You can use this one. I'm not the only one coughing in this crowd."

Hutch inspected the compact metal containers. The bottoms were engraved. The first was marked with the initials, "J.W. from A.V." and the other, "H.W. from A.V."

Wilcox saw him study the inscriptions and turned to look at the horses on the field. "Your mother gave them to us when we went off to the War."

* * *

Hutch bobbed through the crowd toward Forrest. No sooner than they were together, Forrest said, "We got trouble."

"Define trouble.

"Turner is here."

"How much cider did you drink? Why would Turner be in Memphis?"

Forrest shrugged his shoulders, but Tressiter sidled up and answered, "Because he loves playing the horses, and one of his wives has a residence in town."

"What? How many wives are his harem?" Hutch asked, as Forrest's eyebrows arched in surprise.

"I thought you knew, Forrest." Tressiter eyed the length of his cigar and crushed the burning end into the sole of his shoe. "Turner has a wife above and below the Mason-Dixon Line. A young, dewy lass named Amy pines away for him in St. Paul. Both wives think he earns a living as a bookkeeper."

"Does Wilcox know?" Hutch asked. This time it was Tressiter's turn to shrug.

"I saw him walking toward the track. Um, we would prefer if he didn't bother Wilcox," Forrest said.

"I bet you would, after the incident on the boat. All this time and neither of you 'fessed up?" Tressiter smirked. "We just got here. Wilcox is going to be suspicious if we say we want to leave, and he's sitting near the finish line. Turner's bound to spot him."

"There's a crowd where he's sitting. He's not that obvious. Let's see if we can find where Turner is, and convince Wilcox to move," Hutch suggested.

"Timbuktu isn't far enough away to separate the two." Forrest shook his head, worried. "Turner has an uncanny way of landing on Wilcox's doorstep begging for a handout."

"Let's at least spread out and give it a try," Hutch prompted. The three of them divided out the area and began their search, promising to meet back in fifteen minutes before Wilcox noticed them missing. Hutch weaved through the crowd, but saw no sign of Turner. He would have thought Forrest and Tressiter were pulling his leg, but they looked genuinely concerned.

A glimpse of a powder blue dress stopped Hutch in his tracks. Annie.

"Hey, Hutch. I was looking for you."

"For me?" Hutch felt his mouth go dry. "Why?"

She boldly stroked the lapel of his jacket. "I could say, to apologize for my father's forwardness, but that would be lying." She peered up at him through her long eyelashes.

He was beginning to feel funny and out of his depth. "I don't understand."

A finger ran over the buttons of his shirt, snaked underneath, tickling his chest through his underwear, and then wormed through the buttoned flap in the thin cotton… He stepped back.

"I like you, silly." Her voice was velvet. "You're not scared of me, are you?" Annie brought her lips together in a pout.

Hutch prayed his voice would not break when he answered, "No."

"She threaded her arm through his. "Come with me. I want to get to know you better."

* * *

They strolled down the main thoroughfare, talking and stopping at different booths. He thought she was taking him back to her father, but she suddenly pulled him into a narrow alley between two tents. "There's a shady area down here where we can have privacy."

Hutch hesitated, eying the ruts and clods of broken dirt. His legs felt like rubber, and with his bad foot, he imagined falling. "We shouldn't."

She put her arms on her waist and rolled her hips in a way that made his knees dissolve. Her breasts lightly rubbed against his chest. "You want everything fancy-like for your first time, but I promise it won't matter." She moistened her lips with her tongue and stood on her toes, face uplifted, eyes closed—

Hutch leaned down—

"Where's my lemonade?"

The voice was almost unrecognizable but it was Wilcox. Hutch whipped around. Wilcox was slightly bent over catching his breath. A sporadic cough impeded a quick recovery. Forrest stood beside him.

"Cozy arrangement back there," Tressiter said, as he came from behind the tent with a stranger dressed in a suit. Between them was Annie's father.

"I warned you, hands off the customers," the man accused, wagging a finger at them. "This is the last time you work this circuit. Is that understood?"

Annie's eyes had narrowed to angry slits, and her father was clearly furious, but neither said a word as the man escorted them away.

"I, uh… " Hutch tried to apologize.

"Sorry? You'd feel a lot sorrier if that scheming family got you behind the tent." Wilcox had sufficiently rallied to speak. "We described you to the manager, who had a hunch it was the barker and his daughter. She's done this before. Lured someone well-dressed and innocent like you to her hideaway. When she's naked her father shows up and shakes-down the mark for all his cash."

"Is that all?" Hutch scoffed and produced the few dollars from his pocket. "I'd gladly give them all my cash to see her half-naked."

"I know, d'Artagnan." Wilcox knocked the hat off Hutch's head and handed it to him. "Hold this over your groin."

Hutch looked down at his pants, and hastily covered up the swollen mound with his hat. He was sure his face had turned beet red. A hand slapped him on his back.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, Mr. Hutchinson." Tressiter laughed. "That's why men always wear hats."

* * *

A discussion ensued whether to return to the boat or go back to the harness races. Wilcox lost by a three to one vote. Besides the telltale fatigue etching his features, Hutch wanted to escape before they ran into Turner. His used Annie as his excuse to leave, claiming if his one true love was no longer here, he had no interest in staying. Forrest and Tressiter went along with him.

And everything was going his way until they were twenty feet from the exit.

"Jim! Hey, Jim!"

They all turned around, but only Wilcox wore a polite smile. "Turner. I noticed you were missing this morning from the poker tables."

Turner furrowed his brow. "I'm staying here in Memphis. Don't you know about what your great pals Forrest and Hutchinson did?"

"I was… indisposed. Are there any big rewards on their heads?" Wilcox asked.

Hutch stepped forward and flanked Wilcox's right. Tressiter drew alongside. Hutch caught a movement from the corner of his eye. Forrest stood at Wilcox's left.

Tressiter picked up the slack. "Nothing of import. Some kidding that verged on poor taste. What you would expect from our d'Artagnan here, but not from Aramis. Turner decided he had enough and would be better off in the arms of a good woman. He debarked at Natchez, and apparently shunned the brothels in order to visit his wife in Memphis. I forget her name. Is this one Melanie or Amy?"

Hutch listened attentively to Tressiter's threat disguised as conversation. He wanted in on the fun and saw his opportunity when he spied a woman and a girl about his age watching from a distance. He took a chance, waved, and shouted in their direction, "Hey, Amy!"

"What are you doing? Turner snapped.

"Is that your wife and daughter? I'm sure they'd want to meet your business associates."

"Stop saying Amy, for god's sake. That's Melanie," Turner hissed. He pivoted on his good leg and hustled back toward the two women before they came any closer.

Wilcox looked puzzled and nodded toward Turner. "What's this about Amy and Melanie?

"Nothing." Tressiter answered innocently.

Wilcox pinched the bridge of his nose for a few seconds, and turned to Forrest. "Hutch is a good influence on you, Eli. I'd never guess you were capable of inciting the gamblers into throwing Turner overboard."

"You knew all along," Hutch said. He should have known Wilcox with his deceptively quiet ways was the wild card in any hand.

"I told you, gamblers gossip worse than old ladies." Wilcox winked at him. "Now that there isn't any hurry to get me away from here, how about we head back to the racetrack."

.

.

TBC

_Thank you for reading. Comments welcome!_

* * *

_Bibliography:_

Twain, Mark, Life on the Mississippi. New York: Dover, 2000.


	14. Tangible Evidence

_**Characters In Part Thirteen  
**__regory House = Gregory V. "Hutch" Hutchinson, age 15_  
_James Wilson = James Wilcox_  
_Michael Tritter = Martin Tressiter_  
_Edward Vogler = Ethan Vogle_

.

.

…_he was flying. Air rushed past his face…_

The boats were courting—sailing alongside each other and gathering speed. With one hand gripping the rail, Hutch leaned over and extended his arm. So did the man from the Belle. They shook hands. The stranger's was smaller than his and warmer.

"May the better boat win!" shouted the man, his voice barely audible over the competing engines, paddlewheel, and sloshing water.

"She always does!" Hutch answered, and let go of the hand. They were pulling ahead.

The crowds at the dock were reduced to a fuzzy line, no more than a bit of fancy stitching on a lady's dress. The brass band's rousing music lingered as a ghostly echo in his ears. Due back in the pilot-house, he stole a few more minutes and checked the salon. Wilcox sat with a small pile of chips—fewer than Hutch had ever seen, but Wilcox showed no concern.

He hiked to the bow, wanting to feel the full brunt of the breeze created by the boat cutting through the water. The wind billowed his jacket and brushed the perspiration from his brow before the moisture had time to collect on his skin. He closed his eyes and inhaled the distinctive odor of mud and vegetation that clung to the riverbanks. The earthy scent was sweeter and less pungent than down in Louisiana—not better, but different. He committed it to memory before climbing to the top deck.

"Mr. Miller, Mr. Tressiter." The pilots acknowledged him with nods. Miller steadied the wheel and Tressiter leaned on the back window, smoking a cigar and studying the river.

As Tressiter had explained on the ride back from the fair, the piloting schedule had changed. Hutch would have more or less time on his own during the race, depending upon what he wanted to do.

The pilots had worked out a strategy for the race that they kept between themselves. All Hutch knew was that there would be no more four hour shifts. The pilots would work as needed, separately or together, depending upon their experience with different sections of the river. Because of the special circumstances, Hutch was permitted to observe any time Tressiter was in the pilot-house, as long as he did not speak unless spoken to. Miller wanted no truck with a cub pilot, and that was the only way he would agree to Hutch's presence.

When Tressiter slipped that news during their carriage ride, Wilcox and Forrest immediately placed bets as to how long Hutch would go without interfering. Hutch was determined the two men would lose their bets; he stayed scrupulously quiet.

"Did any of the gamblers leave the tables to watch the departure, Hutchinson?"

"No more than you would expect, Mr. Tressiter."

"You're saying no one showed?"

"If it were possible, Mr. Tressiter, less than none. Not one man so much as raised half an ass off a seat to fart," Hutch answered with disgust.

"A damn shame there wasn't an audience. The Belle and Andy put on a grand show. They left the dock like a wedding couple on their honeymoon."

Miller interrupted, "Hutchinson, how far back is the Belle?"

Surprised to be asked a question by the other pilot, Hutch turned around and calculated twice before he answered, "A quarter mile. She appears mighty dejected."

"It's an act." Miller spoke gruffly. "Mr. Sebastian is not taking the bait, the wily coot." Tobacco juice arced from his mouth into a spittoon. "He's not going to open the engines to full until tomorrow, and then she'll tromp all over us like a woman scorned."

Hutch was tempted to risk the bet and ask Miller what made him so sure about the Belle, when Vogle marched into the room and inquired on his own.

"Why aren't you taking advantage of your lead and widening it?" he demanded.

"Because that's not the plan," Miller answered tersely.

"Explain to me how sailing a hairsbreadth above a snail's pace will help us win?"

"You said winning was more important than speed. Let us do what we do best, and leave us alone. It will be dark soon in a nasty stretch of water. We know it, and Sebastian knows it. We're going to take our time so the Andy arrives in St. Louis in one piece."

"I paid the two of you premiums to win this race. I better get my money's worth," Vogle grumbled.

"You will," Tressiter assured him.

* * *

First thing the following morning, Hutch went to the window and searched for signs of the competition. The Andy still moved at a brisk clip, but he already knew that by the raised pitch of the engines. The Belle was hidden from view on his side of the boat. He dressed quickly and went to the other side, not stopping when he heard his name, but leaning out beyond the guardrail to get a clear view of the river. The Belle still tagged behind at the same distance. Relieved, he turned around and focused on the man who spoke.

"Something more exciting than breakfast, Hutch?" Wilcox stood slouching at the doorway, his hands in his pockets. Other than his pallor, he appeared reasonably healthy.

"There is a race going on, or didn't you notice the crowds when we left the dock?."

"I thought those were all the broken-hearted girls you left behind at the fair." Wilcox smiled then looked somber and shrugged. "We either win or lose."

"You lost last night. I saw your stack of chips. How much?"

"Doesn't matter. Forrest is winning, so I'm sitting out a round. The cards will change."

Wilcox's attitude intrigued him. Hutch sank into a chair. "You trust Forrest to continue on a winning streak with that tell of his? I'm surprised he hasn't worn out the watch cover on his pocket watch. Sounds like the chattering of an old man's false teeth."

"He can afford a new gold watch every year because of it." Wilcox's mouth twitched. "That's not a tell. It's a feint. Forrest uses it to buy time and think. Plus the steady click unhinges the other gamblers. Quite effective. Watch the players next time he does it."

"I will." Hutch filed the information for future reference and circled around to the original subject. "Don't you get angry when you lose?"

"Losing is part of the game." Wilcox sat down next to him. "Don't play if you can't stand defeat."

"If it's important, I'd try even harder to win. You don't _like_ to lose, do you?" Hutch asked.

"I don't like it, but I accept it. I'd be spooked if I kept winning."

"I'd get used to it," Hutch said.

A spark of humor flickered in Wilcox's eyes. "You don't lack hubris."

"Tell me, did Mr. Perfect have even the tiniest drop of arrogance?"

"Not this again." Wilcox rubbed his forehead. "No, he didn't, neither did Matthew, nor your mother. After the Confederacy surrendered, you inherited it all, so live with it, Hutch. You're as God made you."

The mention of his mother reminded him what he had in his pocket. He handed back the cups. "Here."

"Oh." Wilcox took his and hesitated. "Why don't you keep Hutchinson's. His first initial matches your last."

"Well, if you don't want it." Hutch ran his index finger over the inscription. The lines barely caught under his nail. "Why do you bother carrying your brother's?"

"I, uh… " Wilcox looked uncomfortable, he drummed his finger on the tin, then sighed. "Tangible evidence."

"Of your brother and my mother?"

"Yes, to keep their memory alive. I cared deeply about them."

"And my mother loved you both equally?"

Wilcox stopped tapping the lid. "What are you getting at?"

"She was betrothed to Hutchinson when he went off to war. If she adored him why didn't she engrave the word, 'Love,' on his?"

"It's. A. Cup." Wilcox shot out of his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. "Where do you get these ideas? It must be awful to be you." He swiveled and gazed at the water before turning back. "Look, our trip ends tomorrow. I'll be on a train by evening, and you'll be heading back down the Mississippi. Can you drop the questions for a day and join me for a peaceful breakfast?"

Hutch shrugged off a sudden chill. Their last day together. Maybe forever. Wilcox was saying goodbye and silently imploring him to play along. Nothing could be harder, but he would follow Wilcox's lead and keep the conversation light.

"Are you sure you're heading West and not to Canada or New Jersey?"

The tension vanished from Wilcox's face. "I swear. You can come with me to the train station when I buy the ticket."

"Trains are boring compared to boats, I'll go on one condition."

"What's that?" Wilcox asked.

"You find me a girl like Annie but without the father and the flimflam."

"I'm a gambler, not a magician," said Wilcox. "Let's tackle something simple first like breakfast."

They went into the salon, where Hutch performed his own brand of magic on Wilcox's serving of potatoes, and Wilcox pretended not to notice.

* * *

Without any set schedule, Hutch hung around the salon, observing the gamblers' reaction to Forrest's clicking watchcase, and calculating the current value of Wilcox's dwindling stack of chips. He strummed his guitar in his cabin, and stared at the Belle from different decks. Between each activity, he marched up to the pilot-house and joined Tressiter whenever he was on duty.

The shadows of the smokestacks lengthened and pointed east by the time the two pilots met again in the pilot-house. Tressiter was at the wheel. They stood a little stiffer, puffed and spat a little faster. Something was afoot.

They stared and nodded at a jutting finger of land where the water was calm.

"Remember what I told you about sandbars, Hutchinson?" Tressiter asked.

"Aye, sir."

"Forget everything I said. You never saw one in your life." Tressiter proceeded to let the boat drift toward the placid water, as he shouted a series of directions into the speaking-tube. When they reached the spot, he turned the wheel hard, and the boat creaked and shook to a stop.

Hutch twisted his head to look out the window. The Belle crept along, but she must have been waiting for just such a moment. Within minutes steam and smoke belched from her pipes. She lunged forward, taking advantage of Andy's apparent mistake.

Hutch felt a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder as heavy footsteps drew nearer. The door crashed open.

"What have you done?" Vogle boomed.

"Boat hit a sandbar, sir. We have the men on it." Tressiter replied.

Hutch looked down. Men stood on both sides of the boat with poles, digging into the mud. They gave a decent performance. Their muscles bulged, but they didn't sweat.

The Belle swept by with a haughty toot of her horn. Hutch could make out Sebastian waving his hat at them.

"Get this boat moving pronto, or so help me I'll…" Vogle made a fist and lowered the timbre of his rising voice. "I'd go on, but the thought of how much pain the three of you'd be in might stop you from doing your jobs." He turned to Hutch. "You're too young to appreciate what castration is, anyway." He slammed the door behind him.

Tressiter and Miller did not speak. They peered out the window until the Belle was out of sight. When she was no longer a speck on the horizon, they trained their attention to the clock on the wall. Fifteen minutes ticked slowly by before Tressiter called down to the engine room. The crewmen disappeared from the bottom deck, and the boat returned to life. The Andy straightened and sailed upriver.

After another silent quarter hour and no more appearances by their would-be castrator, Miller shook Tressiter's hand and left

"Why are you playing cat and mouse with the Belle?" Hutch asked.

"To win, of course," Tressiter answered patiently. "We're approaching nightfall and the worst part of the river for the whole trip. Besides being a gentleman and allowing a lady to go first, I'm giving her the honor of being the first to head into fog, strike fallen trees, or ground on real sandbars. Sebastian will have to slow down. Miller and I will hold back the Andy to about a mile or half-a-mile until daybreak. If the Belle is still afloat, we'll surprise her, pour on the steam and shoot into St. Louis like a cannonball."

Hutch reflected upon the scheme. "It's daring and risky. I like it."

* * *

Excited to know how the pilots' plan was succeeding, Hutch gave up on getting a full night's sleep. He napped in his pants and an open shirt, buttoning it when he could not hold back his curiosity any longer and went on deck. Miller was alone in the pilot-house so he stayed on the promenade, tracking the Belle from there. She was easy to spot on the dark river, her lights made her glow like Venus in the night sky. Her presence grew larger as the Andy shortened the distance between them.

At one point Hutch saw a supply barge loaded with firewood come along Andy's port. The riverboat slowed and crewmen on both boats hustled to unload the fuel onto the deck. When the men had finished, the barge slipped back into the shadows. The Andy's engines whined a notch higher and rapidly made up for the reduced speed.

Come morning Hutch skipped breakfast and headed to the top deck. The Belle was a half-mile away, fore not aft. He burst into the pilot-house as Tressiter and Miller were arguing with Vogle about when to begin their assault.

"What are you waiting for? We're less than fifty miles from St. Louis!" Vogle hollered. For the first time, Hutch thought he heard panic in the Captain's voice.

"Another fifteen miles," Tressiter said, gripping the wheel. "We're running a lot of wood through the boilers to display a large amount of steam and smoke. Sebastian thinks we're moving at top speed. We can take him unawares in another hour and hold the lead right into St. Louis. He won't be able to stoke his boilers fast enough to catch up."

Everyone waited. The walls of the tiny room crowded in on Hutch. He stepped backward until he flattened against the door. The world outside the cabin moved at a deadly crawl.

"Damn it, this waiting is ridiculous. Give Andy full power."

"Not yet." Tressiter held firm.

Hutch played with his hat, spinning the edge of the brim on his finger. He almost dropped it when Tressiter's voice startled him.

"Vincent, give it all you got!" The engine's heartbeat throbbed faster and louder. The whine spiraled higher. The floorboards vibrated with the increase in speed.

They gained on the Belle as each engine reached its peak, the noise below deck becoming shrill. When Andy was almost sniffing at the Belle's heels, the Belle bounded forward. A cauliflower head of steam swirled from her chimneys. Sparks and black clouds heaved from her smokestacks..

"Damnation! They're on to us!" Tressiter barked another order. "Vincent, heat every boiler until they glow red. I want more than they can give."

The boat trembled, but slowly nosed ahead of the Belle. Hutch saw sweat trickling down Vogle's neck. The room was stuffy, and they were all tense, but Vogle was too nervous. He must have everything riding on the bet like Tressiter had said, or…

"How much heat can a boiler withstand before it blows?"

"Don't concern yourself, Hutchinson," Tressiter assured. "Ours are newer than the Belle's. Number eight showed signs of fatigue, but I ordered a brand new replacement when we landed in New Orleans."

Hutch felt a shiver go straight up his toes and through his spine, or was it the Andy rattling? On his first day, he'd seen the crew rocking a boiler into place, but it showed signs of wear, and there was a riveted patch on the top like a tattoo. "Did you pay for a new boiler, Vogle, or cut costs with a makeshift one? You never considered how pilots might strategize for a race, did you?"

Tressiter and Miller's eyes went wide with horror at Hutch's implication. Miller stumbled back and bumped into Hutch, but Tressiter grabbed for the tube. "Full stop! I repeat, full sto—!"

Thunder rumbled from below and the boat jerked.

"What have you done? We're all dead men!" Tressiter yelled and grabbed Vogle by the shoulders.

Vogle fought back, anger distorting his features. "You and your secretive schemes! I'll kill you!"

Hutch stared as the two men throttled each other. A keening whistle from below was quickly followed by another sharp jolt. He squeezed his eyes shut as boards groaned, bent, and cracked from the walls. When he opened them, Tressiter and Vogle had disappeared. The roof was gone and a hole gaped in the floor.

Blasts like cannon fire reverberated around him. Wilcox. He had to warn Wilcox. He reached for the doorknob as another explosion blew open the door. He slammed against the railing and gasped for air when his breath was knocked out of him. Flames and smoke were everywhere. Men were jumping from the decks into the water. He almost laughed at the sight. Now he knew what it took to pry the gamblers from their chairs.

Deadly steam wafted toward him as he glimpsed Wilcox about to run up the the staircase to rescue him. "No! Go away!" There was another boom and a crash. He catapulted into the atmosphere… _He was flying. Air rushed past his face. He flew higher than the black and white clouds. Round, charcoal fists punched him, burning claws grabbed and tore at his flesh. He was falling, falling into the jaws of a ravenous monster…_

.

.

TBC

**_Thank you for reading! All comments welcome._**

_

* * *

_

_Bibliography:  
_Twain, Mark, Life on the Mississippi. New York: Dover, 2000_  
_


	15. Loss

_**Characters In Part Fourteen  
**__Gregory House = Gregory V. "Hutch" Hutchinson, age 15  
James Wilson = James Wilcox  
Eric Foreman = Eli Forrest  
Robert Chase = Robert Lee Cochrane  
Lisa Cuddy = Leah Cooper_

_.  
_

_Hot, acrid smoke, the smack and splash of water, an arm yanking him to shore._

Hutch rocked between night and day, glided on dreams, drowned in nightmares.

…

"Hold still!"

"No, Wilcox! Don't cut off my leg!"

"Shut up. It's over. I'm administering morphine. You won't feel any pain, not right now. Cochrane, hold him down."

"Christ! Someone get him away from me!"

…

From cold black night to gray dawn, the first thing Hutch saw when he came to was Wilcox swaying and holding a bottle of whiskey. He heard a slurred, "You're gonna be all right," and felt a pat on his shoulder. "Go back to sleep."

As if the words could mesmerize, Hutch returned to the darkness.

Damn Wilcox.

…

Someone was leaning over Hutch when he resurfaced. He blinked away the fuzzy haloes clouding his vision. Blond, floppy hair framed a cherubic face.

"Hey, there. Enjoy your nap?"

"My leg." Hutch mouthed the words when he discovered he was too parched to speak.

"What's that? Still going on about your leg? You made quite a fuss about getting it lopped off."

The man's face showed no sympathy. Hutch flinched as a streak of pain raced from his thigh and spread across his torso. When the worst was over, he hoarsely whispered, "Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Cochrane, humble country doctor at your service."

"Not from this country, not with that accent."

"I'm from Melbourne, Australia. My dad was always chasing gold. Nothing could stop him when he heard about Pike's Peak. Left my mum and me to fend for ourselves. When he came to his senses, he sent for us. Here I am."

Hutch's head ached. "I asked where you're from, not your autobiography."

"You're easy to talk to, you know?" Cochrane said, unruffled. "Forrest warned me you'd wake up ill-tempered, and stay that way. Want some water?"

Hutch nodded and reached for the glass. "Forrest is here? How is he?"

Cochrane held the water away as he raised Hutch up to drink. "Sip. Take it slow. Yeah, Forrest is fine. He's with your surgeon friend, Wilcox." Cochrane lowered Hutch to the pillow when he was done. "Fortunately for me, your boat came equipped with an experienced surgeon. Wilcox insisted on doing the surgery himself."

"Wilcox is a butcher. I hate him," Hutch said bitterly. "He had no right to amputate my leg."

"You know better than him and me?" Cochrane smirked then looked solemn. "Do you want to see your stump? You might as well get used to it. Vets from around here told me the first time is the worst."

Hutch closed his eyes and nodded. He tried to prepare himself for the sight of a flat blanket where his leg ought to be. He gripped Cochrane around his shoulders, bit back the pain as he was lifted, and opened his eyes.

Two sharp peaks tented the coverlet at the end of the bed—his feet. It took an effort, but he wiggled his right ankle. Scorching flames ran up his leg, and he blinked back tears, but he felt ridiculously happy. He choked out, "You bastard! Why couldn't you just tell me?"

"And ruin a better drama than the one at the playhouse? Besides, Wilcox and I tried to tell you, but you were out of your head."

"Where's Wilcox?"

"Depends." Cochrane looked sheepish. "You're not going to yell at him, or inform on my little prank, are you? He did a fine job on your leg. Aside from minor burns and cuts, your thigh was the worst injury and badly messed up. The muscle looked like fishnet—riddled with metal shrapnel-like shards. Wilcox refused to stop until he removed every last piece. You're going to heal, but you'll be walking on crutches for a long time; probably need the aid of a cane later."

"It's good you're a doctor because no one would hire you as a reporter. You're evading my question. Wilcox. How's he doing?"

Cochrane concentrated on loading a hypodermic, holding it up to a lamp and squirting out a stream of liquid. "He not only saved your leg, but he rescued you from the river. Inhaled a good deal of smoke while doing it. Honestly don't know how he stayed on his feet during surgery, but he worked swiftly and his hands were steady. I learned a lot by watching.

"A doctor from St. Louis came down to examine him and the other survivors. Don't expect to see Wilcox while you're here. Most likely he'll be sent off to St. Louis where he can get more care than our small town infirmary can provide. However, you won't be alone. Forrest said he'd stick around." Cochrane's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Forrest's not going to forgive me when he finds out I told you your leg was chopped off. He wanted to see your reaction. But enough talk, off you go to dreamland."

…

A veil lifted from Hutch's murky world. Forrest was at his bedside.

"Is Wilcox still here?" mumbled Hutch.

"He's in the hospital in St. Louis. Don't think about him, just rest."

"All I do is rest." Hutch fought to keep his eyes open. "What about… the others?"

"Now's not the time," Forrest reluctantly responded.

Unwilling to be put off, Hutch pushed for an answer. "Stinky?"

"He's recovering from burns. You don't want to see him right now. He's furious that the doctors threw away his cigars. They said the smell was worse than a decomposing corpse."

"The other gamblers? Phil?"

"Phil got out. So did most of the men, though several were badly burned and moved to the hospital." Forrest's face brightened. "You know that chef you were buddies with? He came by while you were sleeping. He brought you a bag of pastries." Forrest held it out.

Inside were ladyfingers. Hutch tried one. It was light on his tongue, soft and sweet. He closed the sack and plopped it next to him without offering any.

Forrest raised his eyes heavenward but said nothing.

"The crew?" prompted Hutch.

"One man from the engine room survived, none from the boiler room. What's left of the crew are here. Few escaped minor injuries. Many are being sent on to St. Louis for treatment."

"What about Miller?"

Forrest pulled out his watch and tumbled it over his palm with his thumb. "He breathed in steam. Died yesterday."

"Vogle and Tressiter?"

The watchcase cover clicked open and shut. "Not a trace. Search parties gave up two days ago."

* * *

A dusty spider web blanketed Hutch's senses. His thigh swore in three different languages plus two that were completely unknown to him. The fuzzy cocoon of morphine muffled the sting. He was content to study the shadows creeping over the ceiling for hours until Forrest decided otherwise.

"Try standing on these." Crutches were shoved under his arms. He swayed, but stayed upright. "Take a step." He obediently obeyed. "Another."

He was guided back to his bed. The exercise cleared his head enough to ask, "What's going on?"

"We're leaving tomorrow."

"Where we going?"

"Wilcox sent word. He claims he's feeling better and checked himself out of the hospital. He wants us to meet him at the train station in St. Louis. We're going to his cousin in Michigan."

* * *

River travel far exceeded any other means of transportation. The rattling coach set Hutch's teeth on edge. Forrest must have spilled half a bottle of laudanum on the floor before delivering one dose to him. The splattered, rusty-colored stains on the floorboards looked like a mysterious Persian rug.

Hutch hardly recognized Wilcox when they met in St. Louis. Dressed in his black suit, skin pasty white, lips tinged blue, Wilcox was the undertaker at his own funeral. Hutch said nothing, and neither did Wilcox, but they leaned against each other until the train arrived. In the compartment, Wilcox chose a back seat against the wall and huddled there for the rest of the trip, a balled handkerchief constantly pressed to his mouth.

Periodically, Wilcox would uncoil and beckon to Forrest. Forrest would produce a bottle and splash laudanum into Wilcox's cup, then pour a more precise amount into Hutch's. Hutch sucked in his cheeks as he anticipated the bitter liquid flowing over his tongue. Oblivion would soon follow.

After nearly three days of traveling they arrived in a small town. The platform sign indicated Ann Arbor. A petite, dark-haired woman greeted them without making much of a fuss, and immediately took charge. She ordered Forrest to help Wilcox, and waved to her driver to scramble down from the carriage and assist Hutch. The ride was the worst yet, and his leg screamed at every bump and pothole. He bit his lip until he tasted salty blood, and soon lost consciousness.

* * *

Hutch batted away a cool finger touching his forehead. The woman at the station was bending over him, pushing a damp lock of hair from his face. His eyes immediately centered on her cleavage. Her neckline dipped lower than Miss Adelaide's.

"How are you feeling?"

"Couldn't be better," Hutch answered while assessing his surroundings. Oak moldings and woodwork were carved in a straightforward style. Curtains puffed out like sails from the open windows, and he glimpsed leafy canopies of trees. He was upstairs in a large bedroom with massive furniture, overwhelmingly ostentatious and smacking of respectability. This was a solid middle-class home. "You're related to Wilcox?"

"He's a distant cousin. My name is Leah Cooper, and I understand you like to be called Hutch."

Hutch could care less about the social niceties and was feeling achy and jumpy. "You have my medicine, Cooper?"

Her eyes widened and the smile froze on her face. "You've been around my cousin's gambling friends too long. That's Leah or Mrs. Cooper to you."

"Etiquette lessons later, laudanum, now."

"All right, but since you're not traveling and beginning to heal, I'm limiting your intake."

"What? Who do you think you are? Get Wilcox or Forrest in here. They'll tell you." Hutch tried to sit up, but as he struggled, he seemed to get sucked further into the depths of the feather bed. He pounded his hands on the coverlet in frustration.

"Forrest left, and Wilcox is downstairs not in any condition to be bothered about your 'medicine.' As the head nurse of the university's hospital, I'm in charge of you. If you don't like it, you can leave."

"Then give me my crutches."

"No." She got up and left, taking the crutches with her.

* * *

The medicinal fog fractured as Leah reduced and extended the periods between his doses. He resented that she and Wilcox thought he wanted the drug for more than pain, but he did come to realize his aching joints, runny nose, and cramping stomach had nothing to do with his leg. Leah seemed to empathize with his discomfort and sat with him, reading newspapers and Dickens' novels when he was too agitated to do so on his own. She also returned his crutches and encouraged him to walk.

One day his jitters got the better of him. He paced while she read. He went out to the landing and gauged the switchback halfway down the staircase. There was no way he could negotiate it without breaking his neck. He had not seen or heard from Wilcox in more than fortnight and was growing anxious.

"Am I wasting my breath reading, _A Tale of Two Cities_, to you? Are you paying any attention?" Leah called out to him, exasperated.

"Isn't there anything better than stories about plucky idiots?" Hutch complained as he returned to the bedroom. "Can't Wilcox pick out my books?"

Leah put down the volume. "He recommended this one."

"Of course he did." Hutch rolled his eyes, but at least this was slim proof that Wilcox was alive. "He's doing better?"

"Yes," Leah replied.

"Yes? That's all you have to say? Why hasn't he come up to visit?"

"Unlike you, he's a good patient and does what he's told. He's not ready to come upstairs."

Hutch eased back onto the bed. "He would if you let him?"

Leah stared back, her eyes unwavering. "He will when he's able." She lifted up the book and continued where she left off reading, "'_And if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living, and of my mother who is dead, you learn that…'"_

…

Slow, heavy footsteps mounted the stairs. Hutch put down his book, raised his head from the pillow, and listened. There was a long pause before the shuffling started again. It had to be Wilcox. Before he had a chance to throw back the covers and drag his leg off the bed, Wilcox entered his room.

"Hey, how've you been?" Wilcox asked, as if they were passing each other on the street, and not busy trying to piece their lives together after the explosion. Wilcox carried a bag, and looked like he would collapse any second from the effort. He was pale, but not frighteningly chalky anymore. His voice had a rough, husky quality.

"Fine, and you?"

"Fine," Wilcox answered as he plunked into the nearest chair.

"Captain Cooper gave you a day pass to come up here?"

"Her house, her rules, but she has a good heart." Wilcox studied his hands. "She likes you, you know. She's a widow and never had any children."

"Am I expected to provide progeny in recompense for her nursing skills?"

"What? No!" Wilcox threw a hand over his eyes and sputtered. "Just for once, it would be nice if we could hold a normal conversation."

"Don't tell me you're not fascinated with how her breasts heave while she gives orders?"

"She's my cousin."

"Distant."

Wilcox chewed his lip as if fighting back a laugh. "Very. She married a cousin thrice removed from the Wilcox clan."

"Why does she even speak to you?"

"After meeting you, I have no idea why." Wilcox stifled a cough. "She and Lucius visited Georgia on their honeymoon. My mother took a shine to her. Leah was the daughter she never had." Wilcox cleared his throat, and dropped the bag upon the bead. "Heard you didn't appreciate the books I selected, so I brought you these."

"Not more, 'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,' crap." Hutch ripped the bag open and smiled when he saw the titles. There were at least a dozen dime novels either about cowboys or detectives. "Now this is literature."

Wilcox pulled a book from the bottom of the bag. "Keep this one buried under the mattress away from Leah. She'll kill us if she finds it."

Hutch inspected the cover, _The Life and Adventures of Miss Fanny Hill_. "I'll guard it with my life."

"See that you do, d'Artagnan," Wilcox answered. Then he did something strange. He leaned forward and stroked Hutch's cheek with the back of his hand, the fingers lingering and warming his skin. Hutch raised his hand to touch Wilcox's but he was too late. The hand was gone.

Wilcox cleared his throat, and one corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. "You need a shave."

"I do?" Hutch ran his hand over his face. His once smooth skin had a rougher texture, and he could feel a few fine hairs. "Where's the soap? Can I borrow your razor?"

"Whoa. What's the rush? You're not about to trip on your whiskers anytime soon. I'll gather up all the tools and supplies you'll need and come tomorrow. Will that do?"

…

All morning long Hutch made countless trips to the stairs, anxiously checking for Wilcox. Not until mid-morning did he hear the plodding tread. He grabbed his crutches and bounded over, barely allowing enough space for the small procession to pass by. Wilcox juggled a strop, soap, a brush in a mug, and a mirror; the tip of a folded razor protruded from his pocket. Leah followed behind, carrying a large bowl of steamy water.

After Leah placed the bowl on a table and pulled over a chair for Hutch to sit, Wilcox made noises about men only, and she retired from the room.

Wilcox introduced the lesson by saying, "You remember what I told you when you shaved me on the boat?"

"Yup."

"Well, be twice as careful. I've seen enough of your blood." He produced the razor and the strop, demonstrating how to hone the blade. "The sharper the safer."

"I'm sure you won't let me forget." Hutch said. He heard a noncommittal cough behind him.

The lesson progressed in silence except for Wilcox's wheezing. Hutch concentrated on his image in the mirror, and with a feather-light touch glided the razor over his face and throat. The mirror kept misting up, but he was able to see well enough to finish the job. When he was done he wiped the glass surface clean with a towel, and admired his first shave.

He turned to Wilcox for approval, but Wilcox was no longer in the room. A piece of paper and a golden object lay in the middle of the bed. Before he had a chance to find out what they were, he heard horses' hooves on the gravel drive. He hopped to the window. The backs of two men were driving away. One was Wilcox.

Without his crutches, Hutch limped over to the bed, deliberately straightening his leg and placing his foot on the floor, inviting his thigh to shriek and cut him off from his emotions. Erase the sense of loneliness and loss. It took all his energy to sit upright and not cry out. Only after his shredded muscles simmered down to a dull throb did he sweep the items to within easy reach. One was Wilcox's pocket watch, an old key wind with the key dangling from the chain. He popped open the cover and read the engraving.

_To My Son, Hutch,  
In Commemoration  
of your  
21st Birthday_

This had to be Wilcox's brother's. Tangible evidence, Wilcox would have called it; but why did Wilcox leave the timepiece behind? Was it his way of acknowledging Hutch as a relative or a friend? Hoping for a better explanation about the watch and why Wilcox left without saying anything, he unfolded the paper. Scrawled on it were the words, _"There's a bigger world than the Mississippi."_

_._

_Continue...  
_

* * *

_Bibliography_:  
Twain, Mark, Life on the Mississippi. New York: Dover, 2000.


	16. The Letter

_**Characters In Part Fifteen  
**__Gregory House = Gregory V. "Hutch" Hutchinson, age 16 & 18  
James Wilson = James Wilcox  
Eric Foreman = Eli Forrest  
Lisa Cuddy = Leah Cooper_

.

**April 1881**

Hutch slowly hiked down the stairs, relying upon the banister for support. The persistent knocking at the door did nothing to rush him. He had seen the carriage from his bedroom window just as the driver looked up, and their eyes locked. Hiding was not an option, but answering the door in his own sweet time was.

At the last step, he switched his cane to his right hand and wielded it cautiously to prevent the tip from thudding against the floorboards like a bass drum. Stopping briefly in the front hall to pick up the newspaper, he headed to the parlor filled with impossibly curved and overstuffed furniture covered in burgundy velvet. Plopping into his favorite chair, he carefully propped his leg on a footstool. His visitor could cool his heels on the front porch steps while Hutch read all his favorite sections of the paper.

The pounding stopped before he was finished with the front page, but he could sense impatience seeping through the door as clearly as he read the newsprint. He decided to catch up on the latest home remedies, perusing every advertisement, not moving from his seat until he reached the last page. Before standing, he fastidiously matched the central crease in each sheet so that the newspaper was as firm as a head of cabbage. Making a detour to the dining room, he dropped it on the table for Leah to read when she returned from the hospital, and marched to the entry hall, no longer disguising the sound of his cane.

Hutch threw open the door, said, "What took you so long?" and abruptly turned his back, not waiting for an answer. He returned to his chair and dislodged a book wedged into the side of the cushion, flipping through the pages.

The cushion in the couch opposite sighed with the weight of a body. "I meant to come sooner, but—"

"—a poker game got in the way? Why don't you tell the truth, Forrest. Admit you weren't in a hurry to deliver bad news. As it turned out, Leah and I found out on our own." Hutch slipped an envelope from inside the book and tossed it onto the couch. "My last letter to Wilcox returned unopened and marked, 'Addressee no longer at this residence.' I reckon that's the polite way Colorado Springs residents say, 'dead.'"

Forrest did not refute the evidence and said simply, "I'm sorry." He picked up the envelope and slapped it against his palm. "Mind if I open it?"

"Suit yourself."

Forrest ripped open the flap and pulled out a newspaper clipping. "An interview about Buffalo Bill." His eyes darted from the scrap of paper and dove down again. "Hey, this portrait of Cody looks like you."

"When Cody was young," Hutch pointed out. He had noticed that too, and thought Wilcox might… but that made no difference now.

"Wilcox would have enjoyed it. I thought you were crazy cutting out cartoons and articles from newspapers, but he looked forward to your, um, correspondence."

"When Leah found out where you were, she insisted I write him."

"I didn't insist. I bribed you with cookies." Leah stood in the passageway from the kitchen, gently tugging at her gloves. She had come home early.

"I thought that was what the apple pie was for. No, wait. It wasn't. The pie was for finishing my homework, and the apple filling for turning it in on time. You drive a hard bargain."

"Not my fault you don't like rhubarb." Finished with her gloves, Leah moved on to her hat, and pulled a long jet-bejeweled pin from the crown, pointing it menacingly at him. Hutch was unfazed.

Forrest stood up and went over to her. "My condolences, Leah, I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner."

"That's all right, Eli. We understand."

"No we don't," Hutch interjected, but was ignored.

Forrest produced an envelope from his pocket. "As executor of Wilcox's will, I cashed out the last of his bonds." He lowered his voice. "The money is to help with Hutch's education, but there wasn't much left in the estate."

"Whatever the sum, it's more than enough, Eli. The university offers free tuition to family members of employees. We'll get by." She patted his arm. "It's getting late. Do you have a place to stay? If you don't mind sleeping in the study, the sofa is quite comfortable. I'm making chicken for dinner."

"You never tasted anything like her chicken," Hutch said, hoping Forrest would turn down her invitation. "Honestly, she roasts birds until they turn to rubber. Belongs on the wheel of a bicycle."

Forrest shot a questioning look in Hutch's direction and answered, "I'll take you up on your kind offer, Leah. Thank you."

* * *

As soon as Hutch finished dinner, he excused himself from the table and escaped to the back porch. The wicker chair squeaked and swayed as he got comfortable.

Every time Forrest or Leah brought Wilcox's name up during the meal, Hutch interrupted with a request to pass the bread, or dropped his silverware. Eventually the conversation strayed to general topics about train travel and Colorado.

A warning yelp from the back door hinges alerted Hutch to Forrest's presence. Unable to outrun anyone not crippled or under the age of one hundred, he knew he was cornered.

Forrest set a small package on the floor and leaned against the porch post, leisurely lighting his cigar. He pointed to his breast pocket. "You want one?"

"Nope." Cigars reminded Hutch of that night on the top deck of the Andy with Wilcox and Tressiter talking about his future as a pilot. The boat, the people, and the dream were all gone. He never wanted to smoke one again.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"Why don't you want to talk about Wilcox?"

"The time for talk is over." Hutch dug the gold pocket watch out of his pants. "He ran out on me and left this instead of saying goodbye."

"What did you expect from him? You knew he was sick and planned to leave."

Hutch understood Wilcox wanted no fancy fanfare, but still… "He could have told me he was leaving. Shook hands or something."

"And you could have asked him to stay. Did you ever do that?"

The question caught Hutch unawares. "Would he have?"

"I don't know." Forrest hesitated and shook his head. "Probably not. A doctor told him a year ago he was on borrowed time. The explosion and smoke… He didn't run out on you, he ran out of luck."

Hutch had no more to say, and stared off into the distance. The dusk left him chilled.

"Here." Forrest picked up and handed him the package. He sighed. "Do what you want with the contents, but don't ever think he didn't care for you." He put out his cigar and went inside.

Back in his room, Hutch grappled with the twine binding the package and tore the brown wrapper from the box. Inside was Wilcox's mess kit cup and envelopes. He placed the cup on the nightstand and tipped the contents onto the quilt. The bold lettering identified all but one envelope as his. Curious, he checked that one first. It was the letter from his mother's friend explaining about Matthew Warrick. The one Wilcox had promised to give him when they reached St. Louis. She made a convincing case that his mother had a deep affection for Matt. He tossed the envelope aside, not ready to analyze the hearsay for any lies and moved on to his letters.

He pulled the clippings from the enclosures, smoothing out the paper as he went. The oldest articles were wrinkled and worn, revealing that they had been touched and read many times. Some of them had brown splatters—blood. Wilcox's. The newer clippings were unspoiled. The faint scent of cigar wafted from the stack. Forrest must have read them to Wilcox as his consumption progressed to the final stage. The last few envelopes remained sealed.

A splash of water spattered onto Wilcox's name and acted upon it like acid, the name blurring into a puddle of blue ink. Hutch immediately blotted the paper then wiped his eyes.

* * *

**1883**

Forrest visited regularly but not often. Months would go by before he reappeared. Hutch accepted his visits the way he tolerated thunderstorms, a seasonal nuisance.

The knock at the door drew Hutch's attention away from his textbook. A penciled note was added to the margin before thumping it closed. He levered off the chair with his cane, but disregarded it as soon as he was standing. His leg was in a chipper mood. He lurched the short distance to the entrance and flung the door open.

Forrest stood with hat in hand. "Many happy returns of the day."

"Skip the flowery salutations and hand over a present." Hutch put out his hand for a gift, but Forrest shook it instead.

"We weren't expecting you until later, but come on in. Leah is still at work." Hutch led the way into the parlor.

Without any formalities, Forrest sat down on the couch across from Hutch's favorite chair.

"I arrived early because I wanted to give this to you in private." Forrest looked uncomfortable as he held out an envelope yellowed with age.

Hutch sank into his chair and inspected the letter. His breath caught in his throat. The flap was sealed with wax, and he recognized his mother's handwriting_. For Greg, on his 18th birthday._ "Where did you get this?"

"Miss Adelaide gave it to Wilcox. He kept it in a safety deposit box in St. Louis." Forrest pulled out his watch—a shiny new one, and studied the face.

Hutch wasted no time and broke open the seal, prying out the sheets. They were brittle like autumn leaves. The sharp, metallic clicks of the pocket watch faded away as he read.

.

_My dearest Greg,_

_ If you are reading this, then I have passed on. I beg you to forgive  
me for being a coward and not telling you when I was alive, but the  
time never seemed right. Now that you are all grown up, you have a  
right to know._

_ Imagine your mother a mere wisp of a girl infatuated with two  
brothers, betrothed to one, but deeply in love with the other…_

_._

When he was finished he continued looking at the paper until he composed himself, but his honesty prevented him from sugarcoating the truth. "I'm the product of love and deceit."

Forrest crossed his arms. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Did Wilcox know I was his son?"

"He suspected, but was never sure."

"He confided in you?"

"Wilcox?" Forrest scoffed. "I picked up bits whenever he babbled from a fever. He loved your mother all his life, but they had only one night together." He raised his hands. "I swear that's all I know."

Fragments from conversations with his mother and Wilcox's reactions to his questions flitted through Hutch's mind, forming a nearly complete picture. Forrest, still in the dark, waited with an expectant expression on his face.

"Wilcox lied to me when he said Hutchinson went to Atlanta. He was the one on furlough who visited Alice." Hutch skimmed over the letter. "They knew the War was going badly, that they might never see each other again. They were right, but for the wrong reason." Hutch paused when his voice cracked on the last word and took a deep breath. "Later, my mother discovered she was pregnant. She knew her parents would be humiliated and Wilcox's family scandalized if they ever learned the identity of the father, especially with Hutchinson still alive and never having left his battalion. My mother decided she would protect Wilcox and spread rumors about her and Matt. Her prediction came true. When she began showing, her family shunned her and threw her out. Luckily, she had friends who were fleeing Atlanta and going to Texas. In her condition, she could only go as far as New Orleans."

Hutch slid the letter back into the envelope. "My mother did a good job covering her tracks. Even Wilcox wasn't sure I was his."

"He called your paternity a crapshoot until he saw Alice's ring on your chain—"

Hutch's fingers went to his chest. "Wilcox saw my mother's ring when he pulled me out of the river?"

Forrest bent forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "When you were treated for injuries. He gave it to her when they were kids, before there was any talk of marriage. For him the ring was a sign that she was true to him."

"Like a gambler's tell. That's all he had to go on? He never read the letter?"

"You saw the seal was intact. Wilcox would never open it," Forrest confirmed.

"Or he didn't care whose kid I was. He said I was Matt's or Hutchinson's, anyone but his."

Forrest shook his head. "How could you spend so much time with someone and not understand what he was about?"

"I know he was a liar. He proved that time and again."

"Do I have to spell it out to you?" Forrest answered wearily. "He was ashamed—ashamed of betraying his brother, of being a drifter and a gambler. He knew he wouldn't be around for long, but wanted you to look up to someone better than him. A doctor, a hero—"

Hutch dropped his chin to his chest and mumbled, "Maybe he should've realized I didn't need perfect. I needed a father."

"In the time you spent together, didn't he do for you like a father?"

Before Hutch could answer, the front door opened and Leah joined them. A cardboard box tied with string dangled from her fingers. "I took the afternoon off and picked up your birthday cake on the way home, do you want to see it or be surprised after dinner?"

Hutch stood up and leaned heavily on his cane as a sudden ache erupted from his thigh. "Not interested. Just learned my birthday isn't a cause for celebration."

.

.

TBC

_Thank you for reading. All comments welcome.  
_


	17. West of the Mississippi & Epilogue

_**Characters In Part Sixteen  
**__Gregory House = Gregory V. "Hutch" Hutchinson, age 25  
Chris Taub = Christian Thibeau_

_._

_._

**Ann Arbor, 1890**

**.  
**

The watch stopped.

The fact only became clear when Hutch's stomach grumbled, reminding him that lunchtime was near. Checking his pocket watch for confirmation, the fancy dial lied and declared that it was only nine in the morning. He shook the case and stared at it in annoyance, but the second hand defied him and never budged.

He tried to forget about the timepiece as he finished with his last patient, but it was a useless hunk of metal and glass taking up space in his pocket. Not that he relied upon it so he could be on time, but rather to arrive late without raising eyebrows. His game required patience. He had extended his tardiness by one-minute increments until a full quarter hour of tedium had been shaved off three hospital meetings.

And the watch blighted what had begun as such a wonderful morning. The letter from Johns Hopkins was on his desk when he unlocked his office door, offering him a post to work with Dr. Osler in infectious diseases. He was to report in a fortnight.

Now he had a sick watch on his hands, but a repair shop was only a streetcar ride away. He dropped it back in his pocket, grabbed his cane, and headed out the door, forgetting about his hunger.

...

.

Hutch glanced at the gold lettering on the storefront window proclaiming Floyd Gleason a jeweler, watchmaker and proprietor. The window framed a shaggy-haired old man sitting at a bench tapping on an ant-sized object with a chunky hammer. Hutch eased through the doorway, studiously ignoring the children who were obstructing the entrance.

As he laid his watch on the counter and said, "Fix it, Floyd," a shriek of high-pitched childish laughter mauled his demand.

"Ey? What's that?" The white-haired man raised his head from his tool-laden bench, and peered over his glasses.

Hutch held the timepiece up to his face, and mouthed the words in an exaggerated manner.

"Yes, yes, of course." The watchmaker plucked the watch from Hutch's hand. "You're Dr. Hutchinson, right? You treated my daughter for," Floyd lowered his voice to a whisper, "an intestinal ailment. I'm watching my granddaughters and grandson for her. Sorry about the clamor." He turned toward the youngsters. "Kids, you want some candy?" He winked at Hutch. "That should quiet them down for a minute."

The children raced across the floor to their grandfather who doled out a hard candy into each pair of waiting hands.

"Let's go for a record and make it two minutes." Hutch reached into his jacket, and swept up his stolen stash of hospital cough drops, handing them to the boy. "Share with your sisters." The little screamers did look familiar. He smiled when he remembered their mother. The woman with blue bowel movements.

When Hutch turned his attention to the watchmaker, the man had pried open the case and was inspecting the mechanism. "This is a beautiful watch your father gave you."

"Do I look over forty?" Hutch had misgivings about leaving the watch with the old guy. Not only did he have trouble hearing, but seeing. With not a little pride, he explained, "The inscription on the watch was to my uncle, Hutchinson Wilcox, on his 21st birthday. A gift from his father."

"I'm not talking about that. There are service marks inside the case. Old Lloyd worked on it. Quite a character, he was. Fixed watches until he was 84. Liked to record the most mundane information along with his repair notes. I once discovered a barometer reading behind the dial. Says here, the watch was brought in for water damage in August of 1880."

The steamboat disaster. The watch got wet when Wilcox rescued him.

"Rock, paper, scissors!"

"Mine! I'll take the red one!"

"Let's go again."

"Rock, paper, scissors!"

Hutch glanced behind. The kids were divvying up the odd bits of candy. He should have counted it and given them only one color. He turned back to Floyd. "You said, son?"

"Yes. Next to Lloyd's initials and date, he wrote, 'For son. Rush. LC08171880.'"

Hutch tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. "Let me see it."

Floyd cupped his hand around the watchcase and tilted it so the chicken-scratches caught the light. Hutch grabbed the wrist when the hieroglyphics became distinctive. He blinked, but the word was still there, _son_. He imagined Wilcox feeling safe in a hole-in-the-wall shop with the other "Oyd," confiding his secret, _I'm leaving town and want to give the watch to my son_. Like the ring had confirmed his paternity to Wilcox, Hutch now understood Wilcox's twisted message. He didn't give him the watch as a keepsake to remember their friendship or mark their clouded relationship. The importance of the memento resided in the engraved watch cover. _To My Son, Hutch…_

"Doc, can I have my hand back?"

Hutch released Floyd's wrist. "What's wrong with my watch?"

The tip of Floyd's nose was almost resting on the gears as he examined the intricate interior. "All the wheels are worn…"

No longer just a useful tool to prick the hot air out of bureaucratic bores' thin skins, the watch had gone up in value. Hutch wanted it in his possession immediately. "When can I pick it up?"

Floyd looked up at Hutch. "Impatient, just like your father. Normally a repair like this takes a month, but if you're willing to pay extra for a rush delivery, I can get it done in fourteen days."

That was when he was due in Baltimore. Hutch leaned on the counter. "Make it seven and I'll throw in a box of cough drops for your grandkids."

.

* * *

.

Two weeks later Hutch stood on the New Orleans Union Station platform, checking his watch against the moon-sized clock on the wall. The train's arrival and his watch were on time, but no one was there to meet him. Braced for an overly enthusiastic welcome, he was somewhat disappointed, but not for long. Arms ensnared him from behind, and when he managed to turn around, he was engulfed in a full-blown hug.

"Hutch! It has been too long, mon ami." Thibeau spoke into Hutch's chest. "Mon Dieu! You're taller than I remembered."

Uncomfortable with the gesture, Hutch did his best to reciprocate with an anemic squeeze. Thibeau must have sensed something off and shyly backed away. "Welcome home, Doctor Hutchinson."

"Are you ill?"

"No."

"Then call me Hutch. Not even my patients call me doctor by the time I torture them into a cure."

Thibeau shook his head incredulously. "I can't believe you're here. Wait until you see my restaurant and meet the family. Everyone is dying to meet you."

Hutch smiled. "What lies did you make up about me?"

Thibeau returned the grin, picked up Hutch's valise, and led the way out of the station. "None. The icehouse and fleeing Hull are the children's favorite bedtime stories. Life's been dull without you, Hutch. To think, you survived all these years without getting hung."

...

.

Ever solicitous, Thibeau drove his fancy carriage through the streets of New Orleans on the pretense of giving Hutch a tour of the city and how it had grown while he was away. His route took them past the cemetery where Hutch's mother was buried. Without saying a word, Thibeau reined in the horses at the front gates. Hutch maneuvered out of his seat, and headed to Alice's plot by himself. Everything looked the same since the last time he visited, except the trees cast bigger shadows, and there were more occupants enduring their shady hospitality.

At his mother's grave, he yanked gently on his new pocket watch chain. He had Floyd solder his mother's ring onto the last link where it clinked softly against the watchcase. Wilcox's simple explanation about tangible evidence still haunted him.

There was no good reason for visiting the grave, but this was the real purpose for his trip to New Orleans. After seeing the hidden message he had contacted Johns Hopkins about changing his start date, claiming a family emergency. It was time to bury his grief and bitterness, and this was the first step on a self-prescribed pilgrimage.

Despite no longer being a child who talked to headstones, his heart whispered, "I love you," before he walked back to Thibeau's carriage.

.

* * *

.

The music was zesty and as hot as the food. The only thing cold was the beer. Hutch had never heard so much laughter or seen so much joyful humanity packed into one room. The crystal chandeliers swayed and jangled from the couples bouncing on the dance floor. Ruby, emerald, and amethyst skirts whirled above the women's knees, showing a froth of petticoats. The men clapped and whooped in appreciation, and children of every size, shape, and sex, scampered around legs and giggled in delight. They made Mardi Gras revelers look like church deacons.

When Hutch arrived at the restaurant, family and friends had already gathered. A sign on the front door boasted that the business was closed for a private party. Hutch hardly had a chance to take in the large, airy dining room and the open kitchen as Thibeau introduced him to the crowd. By the third person, he gave up on names and relationships, and called everyone "cousin," which earned him many kisses on his cheeks and thumps on his back. Short of savagely killing a family member in the middle of the assembly, he could do no wrong. Instead of questioning their sanity, he rocked his chair back against the wall and allowed the chaos to envelope him.

He could have sat until dawn watching, but Thibeau flashed a bottle of brandy, and motioned toward the back door. Hutch joined him on the steps and accepted a glass.

"What exactly did you tell people about our adventures, or did you drug their food?" Hutch asked.

"That's Houma hospitality. My friends are your friends."

"But you're not in Houma anymore. Do you miss it?"

"A little." Thibeau shrugged. "But my family is here. We're no longer separated."

"Which means you can keep an eye on Rachelle."

"She's something to behold, n'est-ce pas?"

Indeed, La Rachelle was a comely woman who was not above flirting with any of her husband's friends, including him. Hutch had avoided her advances, not wanting to take the chance of leaving behind a baby-sized souvenir of his visit. "She's a handful."

"She's a good businesswoman too. Without her the business would have gone under in the first year," Thibeau said, the corners of his mouth twitching with mirth.

"What did she do?"

"Persuaded the butcher and fishmonger to extend credit."

"And now you're on the hook raising that little blond-haired blue-eyed hellion I spied crawling under the tables?"

"I prefer to call him Étienne. Hutch, I told you, it doesn't matter. They are all mine. I'd sooner chop off a finger than choose among them."

"Not a difficult decision. Start with the pinky and save the thumb for last."

Thibeau splashed more brandy in their glasses. "You've changed, Hutch."

The statement startled him. "People don't change, or by change do you mean adding a mangled thigh to go with my twisted foot?"

"No. You were innocent and impulsive when I first met you. Now you're sad."

"Don't cry about it." Hutch mocked and pulled a long face. He displayed his right hand. "I'm tougher, much like my calloused palm."

Thibeau squeezed his arm reassuringly. "Sad like your beard. What's that mange on your face?"

Hutch rubbed his hand over his cheek. There were definite bristles. "Moving trains and straight razors don't mix, but I'm getting used to the promising new beard look."

"That's a promise you ought to break," Thibeau answered dryly, and changed the subject. "How long are you staying in New Orleans?"

"Three days. I'm continuing west…" Hutch swirled the brandy in his glass and sipped, considering how much to explain. " …to San Francisco. I want to visit a friend of mine who settled there. I told you about Forrest."

Thibeau nodded. "Your cousin's business partner. How is Wilcox?"

Hutch rolled the glass between his hands. He had begun his correspondence with Thibeau while he was recuperating from his leg wound. Still hurt by the way Wilcox had left, Hutch had literally written him out of life, glossing over the chance meeting on the riverboat and the events that followed. Besides visiting his mother's grave, New Orleans offered an opportunity for a fresh start, for retracing his steps where he first met Wilcox. "Do you have time for a long story?"

Thibeau capped the bottle and shoved it aside. "All the time in the world."

.

* * *

.

Hutch gazed from the train window as the locomotive huffed to a halt. There was little to distinguish the small depot from any of the others along the route. The building might be a little taller than the last twenty. Built with a straight-sided tower instead of a curved one. They all had the same standard-issue red roof. What made the station and town distinctive was the soaring wall of snow-capped mountains.

From the desolate platform, he immediately spotted his transportation. A man in a black suit sat in a carriage and stared back at him as still as a crow perched on a tree branch. When Hutch was within two paces of the conveyance the man acknowledged him by tipping his bowler.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Doctor Hutchinson. I'm Adam Blackthorne. Everything is prepared, sir."

"I have to be back at the station in an hour or I miss my train."

"Nothing should prevent that from happening. The cemetery isn't far away."

Within five minutes Hutch stood in front of a sparsely decorated grave. Forrest had been right. The older part of the cemetery was suffering from neglect. Stones outlined dirt plots, and most of the wooden markers were illegible and rotting from the effects of the severe Colorado winters.

Blackthorne waited patiently for Hutch to nod before setting the laborers to work.

"A minister is on the grounds, if you want a eulogy…?"

"Nope." Speaking to Thibeau had been enough. Hutch had gone into more detail than he expected, explaining about his pilgrimage. First New Orleans and then onto Colorado Springs. He could turn around and head back East at this point, but San Francisco was a few days away. He had come this far, why not witness the sun sinking into the Pacific. Besides, he wanted the pleasure of snapping his own watch in counter rhythm to Forrest's, and seeing his expression when he beat him at poker. He anticipated that his winnings would more than pay for the extra leg of his journey.

The workmen finished their task and stepped away. Hutch stared at the new granite monument. It was exactly as he had specified.

"A fine headstone, sir." Blackthorne said. Apparently encouraged by Hutch's silence, he cleared his throat and read the epitaph, "'James Ernest Wilcox. 1843 to 1880. Father.'"

"Says it all." Hutch answered.

Blackthorne nodded. "Very… dignified. Simple."

While the train whistle moaned in the distance. Hutch looked at the time, and permitted a touch of sentiment to get in the way of reason. He held the pocket watch up in a salute, and as he did, the sun struck the gold surface and dazzled his eyes, filling them with tears. He quickly wiped the moisture away.

"Not simple… complicated," Hutch answered, and walked back to the carriage.

.

* * *

.

.

**Epilogue**

House woke up on the sofa with the black eye of the widescreen staring back at him. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he was surprised to discover a wet trail of tears on his face. He had been crying in his sleep, but the cause had vanished as soon as he awoke. Pushing down the footrest and disengaging from the couch, House listed toward his bedroom. The kitchen clock glowed 2:21 in the morning, and a slightly damp but neatly folded dishtowel on the counter confirmed Wilson had come home after spending a late night at the hospital. As he passed Wilson's door, a pang of anxiety surged in his chest, and an irrational compulsion urged him to twist the knob and peek inside the room.

The sound of soft snoring was suddenly aborted, and Wilson raised his head from the pillow, his face a mix of confusion and concern. "House, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, everything's good."

Wilson rubbed his face, and dropped his head on the pillow. "Then go to bed. G'night, House."

"Night, Wilson."

House closed the door and continued down the hall. Rejuvenated after his nap on the Muppet couch, he went to his computer, idly surfing his favorite sites. Nothing held his interest until a wild card idea flashed into his head, and he searched on a name. A book, an order form, and photo of a man who looked like a devilish secret agent shined out from the screen like a lighthouse beacon. House felt an inexplicable need to find out if he had anything in common with the Reverend Sean Connery. Drumming his fingers on the laptop's surface he stared at the screen.

With a few clicks he typed Wilson's name and credit card number into the appropriate boxes. When he was through, he closed the laptop, and sank back into the bed, feeling unexpectedly tired.

.

.

.

* * *

_My thanks to everyone who joined me on this journey.  
_


End file.
